Le Disko
by shirozora
Summary: His day job as CEO of ENCOM and moonlighting as the new Creator of the Grid leaves Sam little time to spend with Tron. They try anyway, with and despite the help and hindrance of others and themselves. A sequel to We Are Pilots.
1. Waiting

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**Author's Note:** Let me summarize.

No, let me explain.

I couldn't stop writing after finishing the Tron Kink Meme fill _We Are Pilots _(back in February). I wasn't done with the story and I wasn't done with the characters, especially Sam and Tron. I was filling other prompts to pass the time before editing _Pilots_ and decided to set one of the fills in the _Pilots_ verse. Next thing I knew I was writing a series of time stamps to expand on the world I created post-_Legacy_. They are of various word lengths, feature various characters, and _are out of chronological order_. I will not be posting these time stamps in chronological order; I'm leaving it up to you to figure out how the events go together and how everything's connected.

While the overall rating of the collection of time stamps is "T" some are rated "M". I will include that in the A/N at the beginning of said chapters.

**This time stamp is rated M.**

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**1: Waiting**

He always meant to go back the next night.

It was all he could ever think about. Time ticked louder and louder in the back of his head as he went through the motions that day and tried to stay off Alan's radar. He might have dozed off during the scheduled meeting with the project team leaders but Roy was kind enough to kick his foot and jolt him back awake during Ed's presentation. He tried not to grow more frantic as time counted down - or up, depending on how you look at it - and was fairly jumping out of his skin when Quorra finally emerged from an impromptu meeting with the game developers over the upcoming relaunch of ENCOM's iconic videogames that made the company - and his father - a household name.

"We should go home first," she said before he could open his mouth. "You look terrible."

"I'm fine-"

"I know you spent several days on the...in there." She watched other people walk by them and then added in a lower voice, "But technically you were up the entire night."

"No I wasn't."

"Taking a nap between crashing a light jet and fighting a group of Sentries while coming _back _from the Outlands doesn't count. Get some rest. We'll go to the arcade afterwards."

Five and a half hours later he woke up on the couch with Marvin's butt in his face and his phone trying to vibrate off the coffee table.

"Alan, it's almost twelve. What-"

"We got a problem."

Three days now, and he hasn't set foot in the arcade. Three days and he hasn't turned on all the lights and sounds, walked down the hidden stairs to the basement, sat in front of the touch screen table to activate the digitizer, and gone into the Grid to find Tron. He can't think straight, can't focus, and nobody blames him, except they think he's stressing over the still anonymous hackers getting past ENCOM's legendary firewalls to access sensitive data in the biggest scandal since Flynn's disappearance, and not over the person-shaped program he promised to come back to almost four days ago.

"We've done all we can," Alan says while Sam buries his face in the crook of his elbow. "Give it time; this'll all blow over soon enough. I've seen this happen before, with your father."

"What, the whole 'stockholders leaving burning shit on your doorstep' act?"

Quorra clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Something like that," Alan says. He places his hand on Sam's shoulder, adds, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure," Sam mumbles.

He waits until the doors click shut and then quickly sits up. Quorra's already on her feet, helmet in hand.

"Got the toolkit?" he asks as he shoves folders into his backpack and grabs his jacket.

She waves him a flash drive.

"Adapter?"

"It's in your backpack."

"Good. Come on."

He knows the route to the arcade from downtown like the back of his hand, and his mind goes on autopilot while dodging evening traffic along the 110. Three days, going on four. It's too long, too damn long. The pull of the Grid has been burning hotter and hotter with every waking hour; it's a near constant struggle trying to remain focused on the task at hand _here _in his world-

"Speed trap!" Quorra yells while also giving his sides a tight squeeze. He immediately cuts back on the Ducati's acceleration and it rumbles along behind a small freight truck.

Tonight there isn't a cop hiding in plain sight, radar gun in hand. It's all the excuse Sam needs to dive for the rapidly shrinking space between the truck and the gaudy new Camaro to his right. Quorra shrieks and clings to him tightly as the Ducati roars through the opening and cuts off the car. Sam laughs as he watches the driver flip him off through the side view mirror.

The flush of adrenaline brings to mind the lightcycles, the momentum and the rush of the sleek beauties rocketing down the streets of TRON City. Sam swallows hard at the thought; he wants to be back on the Grid, surrounded by light and energy, with the potential to do anything literally at his fingertips.

He _needs _to go back. He made a promise to save the Grid before its programs fought each other to the death - deresolution - and left behind nothing but empty buildings. He made a promise to save his father's legacy and transform it into something greater.

He made a promise to come back to Tron.

His heart pounds in his ear as he tilts the Ducati around the corner onto a small street. Months, Quorra had speculated, a few days here should translate to several months on the Grid. She talked about pinning down the exact calculations but all he could think about was the reason why his father disappeared. Sam can't do the same to the Grid. He can't just install a Codified Likeness Utility to take care of things and walk away from the servers for days at a time, but he already just did that.

What'll he find when he goes in? The Grid had been decaying slowly the past six months but it was still standing when he went in looking for his father's plans. It couldn't have changed that much, right? But the Grid knows he's been there. The programs know a User's still out there somewhere, and the things Enyo and Crystal said about his presence...

He almost passes the arcade but the bright neon glow jumps out at him and he quickly puts the brakes on the Ducati. It screeches to a stop at the corner of the block and he kicks the stand, turns off the engine while sitting back and removing his helmet.

Quorra's the one who jumps off the bike and runs to the locked door. She turns to gesture to him, her head aglow under the old streetlamp as if it's encased in a fiery halo. It's a breathtaking sight and not for the first time he remembers how different she is from everyone and everything he's ever known.

"Sam."

He fumbles a bit with the key ring until he finds the right one, shoves it into the keyhole, and unlocks the door.

* * *

><p>He glances at her skeptically before turning around and saying, "I <em>said <em>I'm staying out of this-"

"You're the best systems utility program on the Grid, the best architect-"

"The only system architect left."

"That's why we came to you-"

"I said _no_."

Enyo looks at Tron, the optimistic cheer uncharacteristically flickering out. Squaring her shoulders she asks, "What are you afraid of?"

Shaddox stares out the east-facing window of his current living quarters. "Can you say to my face that he will come back?"

Tron starts. "I did-"

"You didn't. It's been too long, but I still see the old you, the faithful you. How do you do it? After the Creator, after Clu, how?" Shaddox gestures at the distant silhouette of the city's tallest skyscraper. "What makes him so special?"

Tron drops his gaze to the floor and clenches his hands. The words are on the tip of his tongue - "He's different." - but they sound so weak in the face of Shaddox's questions. The old system utility is right, after all. What makes Sam so different from the sysadmins before him?

An uneasy sensation grips his chest, twisting code in a vice grip, as the thought flicks through his code. He misses the painful need that burned in his circuits during the first centicycles; all he feels now is a growing emptiness, a hollow feeling that won't leave even after he downs half of Crystal's energy stock during the lull between search-and-secure missions. The work he's done with Enyo and the Sirens on Sam's behalf feels more rote than full of purpose, and he hates that. Even worse, he hates that he doesn't know what to do. He'd watched the collapse of Flynn's visions hoping something could still be salvaged, fighting a losing cause while trying to make Flynn _see_. Clu...he can't. Not yet.

But Sam _is_ different. Tron knew he was different from the second he-_Rinzler _knocked him down and made him bleed in front of hundreds of thousands of programs. Sam is not his father. He's not Flynn. He's different. Better, even.

"Have you no faith?" Tron says, ignoring the shaking in his voice.

"I lived under the radar for a thousand years, watching Clu build his 'Rome' while Flynn hid in the Outlands. I salvaged this sector after the Reintegration because it was the only thing I could do. I know what's coming for the Grid and I won't sit around any longer, but I can't...trust a User's word again."

"What about ours?" Tron asks. "What about mine?"

"To unite the Grid? What good will that do? The _infrastructure _is damaged and only a sysadmin can repair it. I'm not going to pretend that the situation will get better; one visit from a User after twenty-five point two cycles-"

"Twenty-five point two oh eight cycles," Enyo inputs unhelpfully.

"-changes nothing."

"We're not the only ones looking for you, you know," she continues. "Utilities are hard to find these days since Clu rectified most of them and the Reintegration wiped them out. And if, say, Octane can't have you do you really think he'll let anybody else?"

"Threatening me won't do any good. I've survived on my own for a very long time-"

"I'm being practical here-"

"You don't know what it was like. You aren't a User-dependent utility," Shaddox interrupts. "I left because I couldn't do my job. Clu was trapped by his directive, unable to function as he should because Flynn was never here to address Clu's concerns."

"We're not here to argue about Clu," Enyo says. "Sam promised he'll come back. This is his Grid now and he has a _reason _to keep coming back."

"So did Flynn, and look what-"

White light blazes out of the edge of Tron's field of vision and he jerks his head to the window. Directives and subroutines falter, stutter to a stop, and then kick into gear with an electric roar.

"-happened," Shaddox says, pointing out the window to the skyline. His eyes widen.

Enyo says something - maybe his name, to tell him that there's a bright star in the sky when there wasn't a second ago - but all Tron hears is the faint echo of her voice chasing after him. He's already on the faulty lift, waiting for it to move _faster_, pacing in a tight circle while his circuits flare and illuminate the cracked walls.

The small crowd at the entrance to the degraded building had grown larger during the testy conversation with Shaddox. Tron immediately moves to jump over the side of the staircase but Cyrus detaches himself from the other programs and hurries to him.

"It's him, isn't it-"

"Stay here."

Enraptured by the portal's light, the crowd doesn't notice the security program weaving through it. Cyrus isn't quite as agile and bumps into quite a few programs.

"Well what about Shaddox? Did you-"

Tron kneels down in the middle of the narrow street and brings up the Grid's code. It appears as a gridded map of the city, lines and code glowing a soft and familiar white. As he inputs the necessary command lines a circuit draws itself underneath the code, forming a manhole cover.

"What is he doing?"

He shoves the manhole cover aside and it crashes into the street, shattering into broken pieces of code. Cyrus flinches away and Caix, with her beam katana already in hand and blazing green, freezes in her tracks.

"Disperse the crowd," Tron says with a brief glance at the star to make sure it's still there. "We don't want Octane, Luce, any of the sector leaders noticing the traffic here. Tell Enyo to write a shortcut to the hangar, and once you're all there _don't leave_."

"Where do you think you're going?" Caix demands.

Tron climbs down the rungs while the street haltingly seals the shortcut entrance, separating him from his team. His footsteps echo down the tunnel, rapid beats abruptly transforming into a constant hum as he runs, pulls apart his baton, and rezzes a lightcycle underneath. His helmet unfolds and encases his head, dimming the thin circuit lines lighting the way and dulling the shrieking wind. He flattens himself on the lightcycle's body and coaxes it along, pushing it to its limit; it hurtles down the narrow path, weaving through the curves, honing in on its destination - the faintest glow of translucent rungs at the far end of a long straight stretch of tunnel.

The city hums all around him, code vibrating within the tunnel's walls. Using these shortcuts always unsettles him; quick as this mode of travel is it blinds him to whatever goes on above his head, which is the antithesis of what a security program should be. Enyo thinks it's fascinating - "What happens if I create another shortcut while in a shortcut-guess I can't. Should tell Sam that." - but he doesn't think about it; all he cares about is getting from here to there as quickly as possible, and then out into the open where he can function.

He only wishes his lightcycle can fly, because he can't get to the end of the shortcut fast enough.

Something glows in the distance. The closer he gets the better he can make out the translucent rungs showing the way up to the surface. Tron pulls the lightcycle up short and sits up; the helmet folds back as the vehicle's circuits dim from inaction. Tron stares at the hovering steps - fifteen, always fifteen - and the circle carved into the intersection overhead. Above ground and right in front of him will be the building supposedly fashioned after those from the User's world. High in the sky will be the portal's bright star. Inside the building will be... will be...

Four hundred eighty millicycles and counting. He thinks about Shaddox's words and what they say about him. How long would he have waited? How many more millicycles, how many more centicycles? Would he have waited another twenty-five cycles? A thousand years? Until the Grid turned to dust and broken code? And then what?

_I waited, and it wasn't enough to save Clu, Flynn, or the Grid. Why are you different?_

Tron stares down at back of his trembling hands. They're not the hands of a security program, a warrior and a defender. He clenches them tightly to the point of pain, ignores the circuits flashing in protest as he dismounts. He leaves the baton on the floor as he starts climbing.

* * *

><p>The machine slams back into place, closing off the entryway and dampening the jukebox's classic rock track to a mumbling melody while Sam jumps down the steps two at a time. He almost misses the last three and staggers against the brick wall, swearing at the jarring pain shooting up his right ankle.<p>

"Sam!" Quorra calls out.

He ignores her, jams the key into the lock, and flings open the door. The touch screen table across the room from him has gathered a fine layer of dust, but nothing else has changed. The servers are still humming and yellowed light still streams in from the small window above the table. He takes a deep breath and it cuts through the sterile stillness of the room.

"Upload up the toolkit after I go in."

He flings his backpack onto the couch, limps to the table, shoves the desk chair out of the way, and wipes the dust off the screen with his jacket sleeve. The action reminds him eerily of the first time he discovered this room and the touch screen table, and he shrugs off a shiver crawling up his spine. The running clock abruptly disappears and several windows pull up. He types in a command and the digitizer starts humming.

"What else?" Quorra asks. She walks to the side of the touch screen, attaches the USB adapter and digs the flash drive out of her pocket.

He glances at the drive as he types in another command modifying the data conversion. He has no idea what the toolkit will look like inside the Grid but what he does know is that he can't deal with the diagnostic programs yet. He needs time to assess the Grid's current situation, find Enyo and get her report, find Tron and...

"Three minutes," he says. "Give me three minutes before you load it."

"Why?"

His hand pauses over one of the two options prompted to him, and he looks up at Quorra. She immediately takes a large step back and out of range of the digitizer.

"Something I need to do first."

Unable to hold her gaze he looks down at the screen and activates the digitizer. He feels rather than hears it power up; a sudden burst of noise, and the air rips out of his lungs as the digitizer converts him. The relative warmth of the basement room shivers away but he only feels the frigid neutrality of the Grid for a split second; the digitizer rapidly reads and converts his digital DNA, and in the blink of an eye he's sitting in front of a glossy black table in a barren room. A deep breath and the walls glow soft white; he glances down at the circuit running along the edge of his jacket and the lines curving around his feet. Another breath and they brighten while a warm and familiar hum flushes through his body.

The chair crashes to the floor and breaks down into cold shards of code as he runs out of the room and up the never-ending stairs. There's no old TRON machine hiding the secret passage and there are no rows of equally old arcade games lining the walls and down the middle of the building. There's nothing to block his way as he runs for the double doors and shoves them open.

The city is still standing. The streets are empty and skyscrapers tower over him from all sides. He looks up, taking in the skyline and the otherworldly glow of the Grid, and then drops his gaze to street level.

His heart stutters to a stop.

Tron stares at him, frozen halfway up the curb. Behind him is a manhole in the middle of the intersection, and Sam realizes that the program wrote a shortcut to _right here_. Mouth dry, Sam forces himself to look at Tron, at the tense, trembling lines and the uncharacteristically vulnerable gaze. The promises he made three days ago - How many days in the Grid? - loop in his head; he was supposed to come back the very next night, supposed to come back to the Grid that needs his touch and the program that needs his presence.

_Something happened and I couldn't find the time. I couldn't get away. I _had_ to take care of this. They needed me there. _Excuses flit through his head and they all sound so wrong, so much like what Quorra told him about the days leading up to the Purge. It's the same thing, the same stream of excuses and apologies Flynn had made again and again to Tron and Clu. It's everything Sam thought he won't do.

What makes him feel sick to his stomach, though, is that Tron is just standing there, staring at him like he's a hallucination. It breaks his heart, makes the short feet between them look like miles. He wants to say something, do something, break the brittle line of tension strung between them, but he doesn't know how to start. But if not him, then who?

"How-" His voice scratches, skips a beat. "How long?"

The answer comes readily, albeit faintly. "Four hundred eighty point oh one millicycles."

"What-"

Tron steps up onto the sidewalk. There's a shift in his gray eyes, like a gathering storm is building behind them. "One hundred sixty days, give or take a few."

Five months. Sam can't imagine what that's like-he can, he still vividly remembers waiting for Flynn to come home. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow back down, and he can't quite meet Tron's gaze.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Tron closes the distance between them in five strides, curves his hands around Sam's face, and tilts his head up to kiss him.

Sam reaches out instinctively, raking fingers through dark hair and clutching at the program's shoulder with his other hand. Tron rumbles at the touch, presses his tongue insistently against the line of Sam's mouth, and Sam lets him in without another thought. The familiarity of Tron's taste and touch, the feel of the energy-tinged mouth and slick tongue, shiver and ache down his throat and up his spine; he had tried to hold onto the echoes as he forged through the long days on the other side, but in the real world-_his _world, because the Grid is just as real, they became faint tantalizing memories buried under by everything else. But here there's only the cold sterility of the Grid, the living hum of the code underfoot and all around him, and Tron. There's only Tron, and that's all Sam wants right now.

His lungs burn - his body burns - when they finally pull back and the rush of cold air down his throat jumpstarts his heart, sharpens his senses. Tron breathes hotly against his wet swollen lips, looks him all over with dark, dark eyes and flashing pupils. Sam sees the cracks breaking Tron's barely controlled facade; the program's hands shake as he strokes along the curve of Sam's jaw with his thumb.

"Okay," Sam says. A deep breath. "That's-that's one hell of a-"

"Shut up," Tron interrupts, and kisses him again.

The rough, trembling edge of his voice echoes uneasily in Sam's head as Tron wraps a hand around the back of his neck and starts pushing him back. Sam tries to reach behind him to open the doors and pull them inside; instead he hits the hard surface, back curving awkwardly against the disk dock between his shoulder blades. Tron leans in, pressing up against him from chest to hip, and swallows up Sam's hoarse attempt to say his name.

His other hand is everywhere, skimming up the slope of Sam's shoulder, fingers stroking the tense line of his neck and thumb pressing feather-light on his Adam's apple before sliding under the collar of his jacket and down his front. Sam drags in short harsh breaths at the slow build of friction and pressure, pushes against Tron's hand and bites at his mouth. He feels rather than sees long fingers marked with violet lines bend around the hem of his shirt, and then flinches involuntarily when a circuit-tipped finger brushes against sensitive skin.

"Why the clothes?" Tron rumbles against the corner of his mouth.

He can say he's not interested in running around the Grid in conspicuous Disc Wars armor and that he feels more comfortable messing with Grid code in his regular attire, but instead he says, "That a problem?"

Teeth scrape along the side of his jaw. "I like it."

Sam flinches again when Tron slides his hand under his shirt and pushes up, exposing his side to the Grid's neutral chill. He then groans as the program traces seemingly imaginary lines all over the side of his body; Tron's touch burns, moves with precision and with a hint of strength, dragging a long line down his ribcage to the sensitive spot right under his hip joint and back up. Sam hisses into his mouth, hips jerking forward at the flare of pleasure; his knees shake and he clutches at Tron's waist to steady himself.

He feels it in the bruising kisses, in the way Tron presses up against him to eliminate the space between them. He feels it in his compulsion to keep contact, to feel the program shiver and thrum with every stroke and slide up and down his tensely curved back. The need beats louder in the back of his head, coils tightly in his chest and makes it impossible to breathe or think. Sam drags curled fingers over the circuits on Tron's shoulders and down to the bright nodes low on his back; Tron shudders, buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck and moans as Sam slides his thumb along the burning edge. Circuits flare purple-white and energy pulses, snaps through Sam's fingers and up his arms like electricity and cold fire. Sam presses his forehead against Tron's shoulder, gasping for air as the pleasure lingers and burns under his skin. The program's wound up so tight, throbbing hot and needy under his hands, moving helplessly against him in erratic thrusts, but that's as far as he goes. Sam knows he can do more, had felt it and relived it in his mind for the past few days, and god he _wants _that force, that hot living wall of electricity and heat crushing him against the door and making him come alive with friction and blinding light. Maybe he just needs to coax it out, pull it out of the program and make him snap.

So Sam moves his hands up and drags fingernails over circuits, scrapes teeth along the program's jaw. He slides the flat of his tongue along the trembling line of Tron's neck, feeling another moan vibrate up his throat, and then turns his attention to the violet circuits on his sternum. Tron tightens his grip on Sam's waist and makes a strangled noise when Sam flicks his tongue out at a circuit. It's quick and teasing, meant to tempt and tantalize, and yet it shivers hot-cold down his body, numbs his mouth for a few lingering seconds and tingles under his skin. Breathless, he looks up at Tron, searches through the pleasurable haze in the gray gaze for the focused storm. Tron blinks once, then narrows his eyes and growls as he presses up against Sam and works a knee between his, lets go of his waist to tug at one of the belt loops on the front of his jeans. Heat floods Sam's chest and downward, and he gasps, jerks up and presses the inside of his knee against Tron's thigh before remembering that no, things don't work that way here.

Tron leans in, tongue slipping into Sam's mouth before his lips seal around it, and slides the heel of his hand over textured fabric, deliberately kneads that sensitive spot between hip and leg before moving down along the outside seam of his jeans. Anticipation crawls under Sam's skin, pounds in his head as Tron kisses him hungrily, curves his hand under his thigh, and tugs his leg up. Sam reflexively wraps his arms around Tron's shoulders as he balances uneasily on one foot, wondering for a jarring second how stupid he must look right now; his heart catapults up his throat when Tron takes a hold of his other leg and easily hoists him up. Sam curls his legs around Tron's waist, breathes light and fast as he looks down at the program.

It takes just a second, a questioning look and Sam breathing out, "Yeah, okay," and shifting his hips against Tron. And then Tron's shoving him against the wall with a thrust, forcing the air out of his lungs. Circuits slide against fabric and skin, rough and hampered by the layers, but the friction burns bright and it's like he's on fire. Sam reacts instinctively, hooks his ankles together and pushes at Tron's back, urging and encouraging him to keep moving; he crushes their mouths together, tangles his hand in tousled hair and scrapes fingernails over the program's scalp. The kiss is messy and bruising, full of teeth and tongue, and matched only by their reckless movements, the near violence of Tron's erratic thrusts and the painful drag of Sam's fingers over violet-white circuits.

There is no pause, no breather, no time to think that maybe they should take this inside and onto the floor; there are snatches of ozone-tinged breaths, a moment when Tron takes a hand off Sam's leg to slide it under his jacket and shirt up his back, a halting cry when Sam roughly strokes the circuits on Tron's sternum, but they don't stop. Sam hisses, arches against Tron's hand as it burns a trail up his back and down his spine under the disk dock. He's not wearing armor and the only visible circuits are on his clothes but it feels like there are lines on his skin, throbbing and snapping lightning underneath as Tron works them with the dexterity and focus of a seasoned warrior. He knows where to push and slide, how to draw Sam out to the edge; the pressure swells, rising higher and higher with nowhere to go, and Sam twists against Tron, desperate to let it out.

"_Fuck_," he gasps. "Oh god, fuck, _please_."

It slips out as he digs his fingers into the circuits behind Tron's shoulders and tightens his legs around the program. Tron shudders, drags his hand down Sam's back and braces himself against the wall, and thrusts forward. Sam swears at the sudden flush of heat and need, presses his forehead against the program's shoulder and holds on with shaking limbs; his knee slides down an inch and the back of his leg rubs up against the circuit at Tron's hip. Another shudder, and Tron thrusts against him again, rumbling louder with every push and pull. Sam gives back as good as he can, wrapping an arm around Tron's shoulders for leverage as he moves the palm of his hand and his fingertips all over the circuits and hard planes of the program's body; he shuts his eyes against the heat spiraling upward with each electrifying touch, makes embarrassingly hitching sounds as Tron shoves him against the wall again and again. Every rough thrust pushes his shirt up a little more, exposing bare skin to the nodes marking down Tron's front, and the circuits burn and snap through him with each slide.

It's incredible. Overwhelming. All he can feel is the lightning's embrace, the electric roar through his body and mind, the need pulsing and throbbing through the network of circuits under his skin. It burns bright under his eyelids, fills his lungs with ozone and his head with white noise. He's so close that it hurts and he grits his teeth, twists his hips against Tron as he seeks some kind of release.

Sam finds himself swearing mindlessly between ragged drags of air, alternating between "_Tron_," and "_Please_," and thinks he'll go mad when the program slows instead, leaves him aching and empty. The lips at the shell of his ear whisper his name, sex-rough and trembling, and he slowly lifts his head off of Tron's shoulder. He looks down at flickering pupils and tousled hair and parted lips wet with spit, and then gasps when Tron shifts against him, adjusting his grip and pushing Sam that much closer to the edge. One shuddering breath, and they stare at each other, frozen in that moment in between. Another breath, and Tron's kissing him, crushing him against the wall, sucking out air and breathing in heat and lightning. Sam braces his hand against the circuit on the left side of Tron's chest and curls his legs to drag Tron closer, to make him move again. And Tron obliges with a roll of his hips, presses all the way up against him and sets a slower rhythm that lets Sam feel _everything _- the wet slick slide of Tron's tongue against his, the hand gripping his thigh bruisingly hard, the circuit pulsing under his hand, the taut hard body moving and pushing him closer, closer, closer-

"Oh god." He feels the first shaky rush under his skin, tastes static and traces of power as he pulls away from Tron's mouth and tries to breathe. "Fuck, I can't-"

He's shaking and stretched too thin at the same time, can't make sense of the pounding in his head and the heat unwinding in his chest. Tron isn't doing much better; he shudders, flinches at the barest caress of his circuits, moans low and needy as lines and nodes flare white. The semblance of control from earlier slips as he suddenly thrusts hard against Sam, and the friction burns like a lit match. It threatens to die down into that unending, taunting, mindless thrum, and Sam drags the program's hips back to his, hisses at the rush of cold heat as Tron rocks against him. They don't really kiss, sliding bruised lips against each other as Sam presses his forehead to Tron's and loses himself to the incessantly building pressure under his skin and the frenzied need unraveling in his chest and his groin and his head.

"Sam," Tron breathes into his mouth, so quiet and calm and so unlike the tightening grip on the back of Sam's leg and the tense, trembling body moving against him with increasing desperation. "Sam-"

"Right here." There's light behind his eyelids, violet and bright. The air ripples, heavy with ozone, and the pressure is just _there_. "S'okay. Let go."

He doesn't mean to say it - he doesn't mean a lot of things, he just wants Tron to stop holding back - but it's too late, and Tron lets go. Teeth close on Sam's lips as he slides his hand along Sam's leg to his ass and thrusts up with his entire body. There's a sensation like a white-hot electric pulse transferring from program to User, need and pleasure pushing and pulling through every point of contact, and Sam unravels completely. He can't breathe and a single word traps itself in the back of his throat; he curls his legs up and clutches at the trembling, keening program tightly because he lost touch with gravity, with his mind, with everything, and Tron's the only tether left.

The roar in his head gradually dies down and he feels Tron slip, feels his knees buckle. Disoriented, Sam clings to the program tightly, suddenly fearful of falling, but the hand holding his weight up is still steady. Tron buries his face in the crook of his neck, rumbling loudly as he slowly slides them down to the ground. Sam curls up on Tron's lap and sags against the wall, exhausted but hyper aware of his surroundings. Aside from the still rapid beat in his ear and the purring in front of him everything's so quiet.

Too quiet.

He cracks an eye open, and then blinks both as he takes in the weary smile on Tron's face and the sudden lightness in his gaze. His circuits still pulse purple and Sam lifts a heavy hand up, slides his index finger along the edge of the light on the program's sternum. There's a hitch, a shuddering pained whimper, and Sam lets his arm drop. Tron leans forward, pressing his forehead against Sam's shoulder, and Sam suddenly has an unobstructed view of darkened towers and a cyan glow beyond the silhouettes of skyscrapers.

He clears his throat. "We-" His voice cracks. "I think...all the lights..."

Sam doesn't notice the hand resting on his hip until Tron kneads it, and he hisses, arches against the program. He's too sensitive and he aches everywhere, joints throbbing and feet going numb, but he can't bring himself to move into a more comfortable position. Then Tron raises his head and presses a slow kiss to the side of his neck. To the curve of his jaw. The corner of his lips. Sam sighs as Tron kisses him languorously, caresses his mouth with care.

"Quiet," Tron says. "Just be quiet."

* * *

><p>"Was he always this cranky?"<p>

Tron blinks at him, not sure who he's talking about.

"Shaddox," Sam says. The wind almost rips away his voice. "He kept talking like I pissed in his coffee."

He has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but he knows what Sam's getting at. "He doesn't have a reason to trust you. Not yet."

Sam sighs and stares down at the platform. His shoulders sag and there are lines on his face, and Tron wants to reach over to rub them away. Instead he walks over and places a hand on Sam's arm, squeezes once to get Sam to look up at him. "Give them time."

"How much time? The Grid's in worse shape. Don't think the utilities I ported over are gonna help convince the others that I'm in charge now."

No, they won't. The programs Sam ported in are meant to assist Shaddox and Crystal's sister Nyx with only the Grid's infrastructure. They play no role in convincing sector leaders to back down. They have no power over the Sentries and Black Guard still wandering in the abandoned sectors and in the Outlands.

Sam rubs the back of his head and Tron follows the motion, recalling the deep red line on the back of his hand from where a Light Disc grazed it. "Sorry. I should be more optimistic, but it's been really crappy the past few days and-and all I could think about was you waiting for me here."

Those words, that look, the way Sam stiffens and turns away makes something lurch in his subroutines. Tron wants to take that guilt away, throw it into the Sea of Simulation, and let it sink into the lifeless waters. Instead he curls his finger under Sam's chin and tilts his head up to say, "You came back."

He doesn't tell Sam that during the quiet millicycles he'd go out to the balcony and look eastward, wondering if _this _second is when the portal lights up the sky. He doesn't talk about the centicycles he spent patrolling the Rho Sector on his own, or the questions programs asked about the User who came back, the User who promised to save the Grid and then disappeared like another User a long time ago. He doesn't say anything about the weight of time bearing down on him as it ticked on, about the aching loneliness and emptiness that often made him feel hollow and nonexistent. He keeps quiet about the things Shaddox said, the doubts and disillusionment that had started to cloud his mind.

"You're quiet."

Tron blinks and his eyes focus on Sam's mouth. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Our agreement." He glances up at blue eyes, darker than his circuits yet illuminated with some inner light that he attributes to Sam's User status.

"Tron-"

"You can't neglect your life on the other side. You can't do what he did."

"I know _that_." Sam's eyes cloud over and he tilts his head a little higher. "But I can't just abandon you for months at a time-"

"You're not abandoning us. What we have to do doesn't always require a User's permission; you won't visit as frequently as Flynn did, but you do this, you'll prove to the others that this is a permanent-" He stops at the expression on Sam's face. Maintaining the Grid in his absence isn't the topic here. "A thousand years passed before you came to the Grid. Twenty-six cycles before you came back. And another forty-eight centicycles... Three point seventy-seven centicycles won't hurt, and I won't just be waiting. I'm still protecting the system. Still fighting for you."

_I fight for the Users._ It comes out so readily - it _is _his code, after all - but the slight emphasis on "you" suddenly changes its meaning. Not surprisingly Sam picks it up and the corner of his mouth quirks upward before he kisses Tron.

"Stop making it so hard for me to leave," he says. He doesn't step back to cross over the narrow retractable bridge to the tower of wind and light, and Tron doesn't let go of his arm. "Have to write that monitor you requested."

Tron nods. He tilts his other hand, slides his palm along the side of Sam's face to bury his fingers in short thick hair, and tilts his head up to swallow the name on the tip of his tongue. He presses into Sam's mouth, memorizing its hot slick shape and the taste of sweet raw energy, and shivers when Sam moans and kisses back. The low needy sound almost deafens him to the constant roar of the active portal behind them, but it's still there and it won't stop reminding them that Sam needs to leave.

"Yeah," he says hoarsely when they pull back. "Yeah, I have to...have to go."

At that Tron lets him go and takes a slow step back. He watches Sam gather himself, square his shoulders, and turn around to face to the narrow bridge... and then turn back around. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"

Tron frowns. "You asked me that before."

"I know. Forget it." Sam shrugs, nonchalantly adds, "Just wanted to see what you'd say."

That makes no sense. They know Tron's place is here. He's a program; he can't just leave the Grid like Sam can. More importantly, he's _needed _here, even if most of the Grid still can't see him as the program he used to be before... he lets the thought slide away and forces himself to say, "I'll see you around."

Sam nods and smiles at him. "Yeah, see you around."

Tron wants to look away. It was already hard enough the first time Sam stepped into the pillar of light, let go of his disk, and disappear. He can't turn away, though, because when after Sam takes his disk off and lets it float out of his hands he turns to look straight at him. His eyes are a shade of blue Tron can never find on the Grid. Then the light becomes too bright and Tron's forced to avert his gaze.

The winds die and the Sea directly under the portal stops stirring itself into a frenzy. Tron blinks and immediately looks at the portal, now devoid of power and presence. Three point seventy-seven centicycles will pass until it lights up again and Sam comes back.

The seconds start ticking in the back of his head as Tron walks down the steps from the platform to the landing and pulls out his baton.


	2. To Save A Soul

**Author's Note:** Let me explain some more.

LJ is the home of many prompt communities. The one I'm particularly fond of is called _7rainbowprompts_. How that community works is that they have a set of prompts for the seven colors of the rainbow and each color has a set of ten prompts for a total of seventy. I wanted to use one of the seven sets to help me expand this world beyond Sam and Tron, and after much debating - and the assistance of some people on Twitter - I chose the Red set.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**2: To Save A Soul [Red]**

A second purge began following what later became known as the Reintegration. Programs, especially those who long lived and worked in fear of the system, of being dragged away at a microcycle's notice by Sentries on Recognizers, began attacking the soldiers of Clu. Those still in TRON City when a bright light exploded in the east were now on the run. Many escaped into the Outlands. Many were felled by mobs. The ones left standing were only spared because the programs vying for control of the Grid found their remaining directive – _Maintain order. –_ incredibly useful.

Few programs managed to override that directive after Clu's system collapsed. The disk-less reclusive soldier roaming the sectors of the city appeared to be one of them. So was Octane, a sector leader who had escaped something called the Rectifier with only minimal tampering to his code.

Zaller was another.

He was one of the lucky ones. Besides being able to override most of the rectification he was stationed at the Gaming Grid when the Reintegration happened and a city-wide silence fell. Then, when Clu's system collapsed and the prisoners found themselves free to do as they please – attack the Sentries and Black Guards – he fled to the Armory. On the lift down he watched his circuits flicker between red and blue while the directive faltered.

The Sirens were gone when he arrived but there was evidence of a fight, including piles of broken code and darkened Light Discs on the ground. Zaller stayed here for some time, studying his circuitry and trying to remember what he was before he was repurposed while the Sentries and former gladiators fought overhead. He waited point two five millicycles after the fighting stopped and then took the lift back up.

He hid in the underbelly of TRON City for cycles, watching the Grid slowly collapse into anarchy. He resisted the inexplicable urge to stop the fighting and restore order, knowing he's not clean of Clu's corruption and that he'll only attract attention to himself; he could suppress the red-orange glow most times but they always burned in his circuits whenever gangs of suspicious programs approached him.

Eventually he discovered an advantage to his code's error – programs were still afraid of the red color. No matter how much they wanted to derezz him they approached him with too much caution, with too much fear, and it became progressively easier to fight them off and keep them away. The city blocks he regularly haunted, located in the more chaotic section of the city, became a safe zone for programs still lost and directionless in the face of the system-wide collapse.

Then one millicycle a star shone in the east and rumors began to spread of a User walking on the Grid. And just like that everything changed.

The portal had been dark for several centicycles now. Sectors were turning over to the programs tasked by the User to unify the Grid. And Zaller was caught up in a fight with a group of Sentries led by a yellow-lit program with a missing arm.

_Maintain order_, a broken directive ordered.

_Neutralize the security threat_, something else said. It was Zaller's voice, Zaller's programming. Zaller had always been a security program.

He was caught between two Sentries, desperately blocking blows with his disk, when two blue Light Discs whistled through the air and derezzed the programs. Stunned Zaller almost dropped his disk but regained his senses in time to help the new blue-lit arrivals beat back the invaders from the Outlands.

Afterwards a program he didn't expect to ever meet face to face approached him and said, "Identify yourself."

"Zaller," he said automatically, tilting his chin up. He watched other security programs push aside piles of code and collect the inactive disks.

"You were rectified-" Zaller's circuits wouldn't stop flickering between blue and red. "-and you overrode it."

"So did you," he retorted. "That's what they say, anyway."

"They're right." The tall program studied him from head to toe. "I could use you."

"I was a Black Guard."

"I was the Enforcer. And here I am restoring the Grid." Tron looked him in the eye. "Join me."

Zaller didn't hesitate. "Yes."


	3. Courageous

**Author's Note:** Apparently I'll be posting the chapters in a more chronological order than I do elsewhere. Hope that helps. For the prompt "Courageous" from _7rainbowprompts_.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**3: Courageous [Red]**

Point twelve millicycles pass before Tron leaves the portal. At the outskirts of the Grid he writes a shortcut to the center of the city, then one to the sector held by Crystal's sister Sirens.

Yssandra is the one who owns the club at the sector's heart and she greets him with a green cocktail and a suggestion.

"My bouncer needs work."

Cyrus is a program better suited for analyzing security threats than filtering the programs entering her establishment. According to Yssandra he was at the End of Line Club when Gem brought in Sam.

Sam. Not even half a millicycle and the thought leaves an aching loneliness that Tron can't stand. He concentrates instead on building a security team to assist him in unifying the Grid's sectors, starting with Cyrus.

"What can you tell me about this sector?" he asks the program.

"Low traffic, but tensions are high. Yssandra and Nyx monitor with a firm hand but recent events will change its neutrality." Cyrus flicks his eyes up and down, adds, "Your presence won't help."

"Not my concern. I need yours."

Something shifts in Cyrus's face and he draws himself up tall while the blue circuits on his hands, ill-suited for combat but no doubt quick with interfaces, glow. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need a security team. Enyo and I are to unify and secure the Grid by the time Sam-by the time the User returns."

"So he's coming back."

That's the question, isn't it? In the later cycles so many feared that the Creator would turn his back and leave them without a directive in a system that can't function without a sysadmin. It's why Flynn wrote Clu.

Now the portal's closed and the uneasy feeling is settling back in, something not even Tron can deny. But there's the old leather jacket, folded on placed on a shelf in his small room. There's a warm, breathy promise echoing in his memory.

"He will," Tron says, then gestures for Cyrus to follow him. "As part of the Resistance you know capable programs. Who do you recommend?"

Her name is Sen. She's taking point while others raid a hidden cache of weapons two sectors over but she seems flighty and anxious, not something Tron's looking for. He's no longer familiar with the Gridscape, though, and has only Cyrus's-and Yssandra's-word to go on. "I need a team to help me unify the sectors. Cyrus says you're capable."

"I'm just a repair utility stuck with guard duty."

"He says you're lethal with a beam katana."

She turns on Cyrus. "You told him what I did during the Purge?"

"He asked. Besides, we have a new User now. He'll fix everything and the Grid will be back to normal."

Sen looks up at the sky to the east. "Then where is he? Why hasn't he fixed everything already?"

"He will," Tron says. "He's...not used to his User powers. And he has a life outside the Grid to sort out before coming back. Until he returns we have to secure what's left of the city. Our directive is to unify the sectors, contain gridbug swarms, and derezz any supporters of Clu. Can you do that?"

As with Cyrus her attitude changes, like Tron's invitation triggers something deep inside her programming.

"I'll do it."

The decision to pursue Zaller, a Black Guard stationed at the Arena who overcame his rectification following the Reintegration, is all on Tron. He needs a strong program to help with a sudden surge in gridbug attacks and Zaller fits the bill, but for Tron he's also a reminder of what a second chance looks like.

"I was a Black Guard."

"I was the Enforcer. And here I am restoring the Grid. Join me."

"Yes."

They discover Caix while hunting down Octane. The sector leader is gone by the time they arrive at the central tower but Caix is there, disk out and ready. Apparently Octane promised her a chance to derezz both the Enforcer and a Black Guard. It takes a heavy blow to the circuits on her chest to knock her offline and after they scan the building they wait for her to wake up.

"Where's Octane?" Tron asks while Sen scans Cyrus and Zaller for damage.

"Don't know. Got hired less than a millicycle ago to derezz you. That's it."

"She's a Disc Wars combatant," Zaller says. "Had she survived the penultimate round she'd have faced you."

"Except the system collapsed and you were suddenly free." Tron studies her for a few microcycles, then asks, "How long did you wait?"

"Rumors spread after the Reintegration about Rinzler. About you. Didn't change what you did, so I followed them. Then you appeared on the Grid like an ISO, holed up in a neutral sector where nobody could touch you." Light green eyes turn skyward. "Then the portal opened."

Caix then looks straight at Tron. "He trusts you. After everything you did he came to you."

"I'm not Rinzler. And I'm not the only one looking for something. A purpose. A reason." After a moment's hesitance he adds, "I could use you."

Tron is sure he has everyone he needs for the task at hand but something's still off. Several centicycles later it dawns on him and when Sam returns he asks for help.

"What do you need?"

"I need you to write a program."


	4. We're OK

**Author's Note:** Expanding on the _Pilots_ verse means that I also write time stamps that focus on other characters, like Quorra.

This one is about Quorra.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**4: We're OK**

"...what? No, it's just us...we're not dating! How many times-is that Lora? _You put me on speaker_-oh look, we're running late, see you tomo-no, I will not show up at noon just so you can get a new popcorn machine...yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow."

Quorra looks up from the jukebox's selection as Sam kicks the door shut behind him. "He thinks we're dating?"

"Half the world thinks we're dating." He shoves his phone in his pocket and saunters over to her side. "What's your pick?"

She grins and selects a song. "Bon Jovi."

They push aside the TRON game machine and head down to the basement, chased by Jon Bon Jovi belting out something about a dockworker named Tommy. As the song becomes a disjointed echo down the stairs Quorra broaches the subject again.

"When are you telling him?"

He sighs. "I don't know. Soon. I'll tell him soon."

"That's what you've been saying. But now that you're always going back-he doesn't suspect anything, does he?"

"Not yet." Sam brushes by her to unlock the doors guarding Flynn's secret. "Remember what I told you about Dad's supposed behavior right up until he disappeared? I don't want a repeat of that. Can't afford to."

Quorra chews her lip as she follows Sam into the room. She flips on the lights while he tosses his backpack onto the couch and sits down in front of the touch screen table. "But it's not happening again. And-and he should know. At least, he should know about me."

His hands still right before they type in the commands to activate the digitizer. She takes a deep breath, pushing back against the sudden pressure bearing down on her from all sides. Upstairs, Bon Jovi's "Livin' On A Prayer" subsides.

"Do you want to tell him?"

She fidgets. "It just doesn't seem right hiding everything from _him_. He's too...nice. I don't think he'll do something to me just because I'm an ISO. And I've been hiding it for so long." She presses her fingertips together as she searches for the words. "I can't see the circuit on my arm anymore."

"Yeah, you can. It's-"

"It's not the same thing." She rubs at her upper arm, tracing the thin lines of bleached skin under layers of fabric. "Whatever you call it-"

"Birthmark."

"It's not the same thing, and without it I can't...it's hard remembering what I am or where I came from. It's hard saving memory here."

"That's 'cause our brains don't have enough space to memorize everything." Sam swivels the chair around to face her. "We're also not supposed to be over a thousand years old, or live through things nobody ever should see."

"That's what Flynn said." She folds her arms, feels the polyester stretch tightly at the folds. "Always said I didn't deserve it, you didn't deserve it...nobody deserved what happened."

It's one of her stronger memories, impossible to forget, because he used to say it so often in the later cycles, and when he did he sounded so old and tired. And watching him age from a fallen god to... She shivers. "Well, I want to tell Mr. Bradley-I mean, Alan, one day. I want him to know who _I _am. And you need to tell him about the Grid, about Flynn. He deserves it."

Sam bows his head. "I know. I know, but I don't know how to do it. What am I supposed to say? 'Oh hey, remember that night seven months ago when you got the page from Dad's office at the old arcade and gave me the keys? Yeah, I did find Dad. He was trapped in a computer by his own program.' I don't know; he's already been through enough. Maybe he's better off not knowing. He's already pretty happy with me."

"But you can't hide this from him forever. He's not stupid, Sam. He's going to notice. He's already convinced we're dating and that's only because...you remember, right? He was starting to worry, kept asking me if something was bothering you, and then...you went in."

Despite the poor lighting she can see the flush working up Sam's face. He turns away, quietly says, "Yeah. You're right."

She still doesn't understand why Sam reacts so seriously, so _reverently_ whenever she talks about his return to the Grid. After a thousand years with Flynn in the Outlands, Sam, Marv, Mr. Bradley, ENCOM, the residents in the apartment complex, the faces on TV, the whole wide _world_ were a continuation of that first breath of air in the User world, and she thought this was _it_. This was what it means to be a User. A human. Nothing, not the Grid, not anything could get better than this.

Then a month ago Sam went back in, and came out with a name.

Tron. _Rinzler._

The Protector. _The Enforcer._

Her defender _and her hunter._

She didn't know what to say or think or feel when Sam told her. On principle she should've been angry. Furious. Full of revulsion. This was _Rinzler_, Clu's perfect weapon, the one program that could work outside the system to obey his directive. How did he survive his fall into the Sea? Why didn't Sam-he'd never understand, and she didn't want him to, but still, this was the program who derezzed so many of her fellow ISOs, who terrorized the Grid on Clu's behalf... and yet all she felt was shock.

_Tron _was back.

And the look on Sam's face, the awe in his voice as he said Tron's name, the way he made a beeline for the little action figure in his bedroom as soon as they arrived home and held it so carefully in his hands told Quorra that Tron meant something to him that she won't understand. She doesn't think she wants to.

Sam's activating the digitizer now, his movements jerky and hurried. She realizes that she's been taking deep breaths to calm her heart; this conversation had taken a direction neither of them wanted to go. She presses the heel of her hand to her chest and feels the heartbeats vibrate through her body. Behind her the digitizer hums as it powers up, ready to convert flesh and blood into computer code.

He looks over his shoulder. "You're in the way-"

"I'm going in."

He balks. "What?"

Her heart beats even faster, and why did she say that? "I'm going in."

"To the Grid?"

"Where else are we going?"

He shakes his head. "No, sorry. Just that...are you sure? You never...wanted to go."

She still doesn't. She still feels repulsed by the memories and the deep, aching pain of all she had to endure on the Grid. But it has a new sysadmin now, a new purpose, and it's time for her to move on, or she just wants to face Tron and see for herself that Rinzler's gone forever.

Actually, she doesn't know. She just...needs to see the Grid again.

What she says is, "It's been almost seven months. I know I said there's nothing for me there but I...I still miss it. A bit. And I want to remember who I am."

He studies her and she stares back, jaws set, wondering if he can hear her heart racing with the impulsive decision. Then he relaxes, looking relieved - _Why?_- and says, "Okay."

* * *

><p>The Grid welcomes her back, embracing and enveloping her in its eternal living hum. She closes her eyes and reaches out, feels the thrum of her circuits as her sensors brush against the other things in the room - the wall, the table and chair behind her, the faint signature of the sector, Sam. He approaches her and she opens her eyes, looks over her shoulders at him. He's not wearing the Disc Wars armor and the only visible circuits are the white lines on the front of his jacket and on his shoes. She looks down at herself, then pulls up the sleeve of her jacket as far as it can go, looking for the circuits on her upper arm.<p>

ISO. Isomorphic algorithm. She traces the bottom edge of its shape with her finger and smiles, relieved. She looks up when Sam moves around her, looking confused.

"Your disk is missing," he explains.

"Flynn took mine, remember?"

His eyebrows furrow for a few seconds and then he looks away. "Yeah, I remember. Should get you a new one. Come on."

Ages-old habit tells her to cover her mark and she tugs her sleeve back down, smoothes out the wrinkles as she follows him out of the room.

As they climb up the stairs he says, "Not even a quarter of the way done cleaning out the city. Clu did a number on the original system - whatever I can make of it; hard to tell even with Dad's notes - and a third of the city's still dead. Last time I was here we stopped a couple Sentries from bombing one of the new memory banks and half the programs here still think I'm...Clu the Second."

"The Third, technically. Flynn told me once that he wrote a program to get into ENCOM's old system to find the truth and he also named it Clu."

Sam chuckles. "Oh yeah. How'd I forget that? He used to tell me those stories all the time before bed."

They come up into what looks like an exact replica of the arcade's interior, minus the machines, the air hockey tables, the jukebox, the neon signs, the old framed posters, the second story, and the feeling of oldness in the structure. She looks around at the high bare ceiling as she follows him to the double doors. He grabs the handles but doesn't pull them just yet.

"It's not much to look at, but this sector's one of the first we secured since this is where the digitizer's input's located. So, it looks better than most but don't expect too much. I know it must've been years since I decided to take charge, but all we've done is stabilize the infrastructure and-"

Why is he the nervous one here? Shouldn't she be the one anxious about coming back to the Grid? She places her hand on his arm and says, "It's okay."

What ends up taking her breath away isn't the achingly familiar sight of the city's skyscrapers, many of which she notices are darkened and lifeless, but the tall program freezing mid-stride while walking to them. Her eyes immediately flick down to the telltale circuits on his chest and she doesn't know whether to tense up or relax. The low rumbling hum sends a chill down her back even though it's not what she remembers and she starts shifting into a defensive position.

Sam is saying something. She blinks and looks at him. "What?"

He rubs the back of his neck as he looks between her and the Basic in front of them. "Maybe this isn't a good-"

"I should go."

She flinches, more because she didn't expect him to talk than because he was - _Was_, she reminds herself firmly because she can feel it as much as see it - Rinzler, and he notices. His eyes drop and his shoulders slump as he takes a step back, and suddenly he looks more like Rinzler than a second ago. She doesn't know how to react to that, doesn't know how to react to _him_.

Sam steps forward, says, "Wait-"

Tron nods to the blue-lit program standing on the other side of the street and studying a data pad. "We've been advising the others of a gridbug swarm Cyrus was tracking-"

"So the code works?"

"It's sixty-eight point fifty-four percent accurate. He has a list of suggested modifications for you to look at but we can do that later."

Tron's avoiding her. He's shifting back, trying to cross the street and rejoin the other Basic, leave them to their own devices because she's here. He doesn't want to leave them either. The look he gives Sam before quickly glancing at her and then the building behind them makes her wonder, but Sam sighs heavily and that draws her attention.

"No, I'll look at them now." He suddenly frowns and stares at Tron's feet. "Wait, no, what we're doing is, I'm going with Cyrus and you're getting her a new disk."

Quorra blinks. _What? _"What?"

"That's not a good idea," Tron says. "The gridbug swarm is my responsibility; go to Yssandra's after you make the changes-"

Sam shakes his head. "I want to see your team at work without you hovering around-"

"I don't hover; I can't fly-"

Quorra snorts at the sudden image in her head of Tron floating around and patrolling the Grid like the helicopters following car chases on the freeway. She quickly stifles her laugh when she notices them staring at her, covers her mouth and shakes the picture out of her head. "Sorry."

Sam's grinning, though, and she knows he was imagining the same thing. "So you're okay with that?"

"Okay with...what?"

He points at the program on the other side of the street. "I'm going with him and meeting up with the rest of Tron's team. I'll see you two at the club."

He's leaving her with Tron? Why? She looks to Sam for an answer and he presses his lips into a thin line, rocks back and forth on his feet.

"I just think someone who's been here for over a thousand years would be more familiar with the Grid than me. More importantly, he'll keep you safe. Safer."

A chill crawls up her spine. She's no stranger to danger; she spent most of her life on the Grid being on guard against increasingly hostile Basics and running recon for Flynn during Clu's reign. She knows that three days ago Sam stopped Sentries from bombing a memory bank and that last week he almost died derezzing a group of hostile Basics from sabotaging a new I/O tower. Nothing's changed after all. She's not safer than she was before Sam first stumbled onto the Grid. Old habits, long unused in the safety of the User world, start kicking in and she glances up and down the street, looking for any signs of disturbance.

"There are no hostile programs here," Tron immediately says. "I made sure of it."

"See what I mean?" Sam says. "Since Q's here I'm not staying as long. Two hours?"

Tron nods and Sam gives her a reassuring smile before jogging across the street to the waiting program, who quickly snaps to attention and almost drops his data pad.

"They still don't know how to behave around him," Tron says in a low voice and she glances at him. He watches Sam's every move as he studies the data pad, talks to the other Basic, and takes the proffered baton from him. She tilts her head up to the tall dark towers around them as she jams fisted hands into her jacket pockets, remembering how they used to glow with life.

She feels rather than hears the rumbling hum of running lightcycles as Sam and the other Basic leaves, and wishes he hadn't. He's the only one who can keep things from becoming increasingly awkward, or dangerous. They were on neutral terms before the coup - actually, she never really interacted with him, or Flynn - but for a thousand years he-_Rinzler _hunted her. She feared and hated him.

But the program standing three awkward feet away from her is Tron. _And Rinzler._ Sam wants him to protect her. _And Clu had him hunt her._

"I wish he waited before bringing you back," Tron suddenly says. "It's not ready yet."

She feels her relax just a bit, grateful that he spoke first. "He tells me all the time."

"I..." He hesitates. "I believe we should move. Delta's far from here but we can take a shortcut, unless you want to see the city."

He keeps talking about the Grid like it's some hideous imitation of the city she still dreams of, the city she once called home. Even what Sam says is more flattering, and he didn't exactly heap glowing praise on it. She tells him that.

"Being told what something looks like isn't the same as seeing it yourself," the Basic says and bends down to unhook batons from the holsters on his thighs. "I can't guarantee your safety if we take the overland route all the way to Delta."

"You talk like I don't know how to defend myself," she says as she takes the baton. She curves her fingers around its shape, finding its weight comforting and familiar. "I don't need my disk for that."

She sees a hint of guilt flicker in his gray eyes and wonders if he thinks she's talking about the fight on the Rectifier's bridge. Then she wonders why that's the first thing to come to mind when she hasn't thought about it for months.

* * *

><p>Quorra stares at a spot above Tron's head while Yssandra removes a blank disk from a selection and collapses the shelf back into one of the white panels lining the concave wall. Her ears pick up the Siren's precise footsteps with nervous clarity and she starts breathing deeply, preparing herself for the sync.<p>

"You know what to expect," Yssandra says calmly behind her.

"Yeah." She still can't forget when Flynn - _Clu? No, he didn't like us from the very beginning, and Flynn was curious. Flynn wanted to _know. - took a dark circular object from a Siren's hand - _Gem._- and told her to take a deep breath before locking it onto her dock.

Once she touched a metal prong when detaching her laptop's power cord from the socket, and the mild shock reminded her of the sync. Once of the friendlier Basics from her life before Clu said it wasn't too painful, but for her it was a punch in the gut and the chest, a full body shock that burned hot and cold through her circuits and code. It's the same now; as soon as the disk clicks into place it sets fire to the white lines through her body, seeps into her code and takes hold of her very being. She tries to breathe to break through the sync's tight grip.

The heat abruptly subsides and the disk's reach intertwines itself with her ISO DNA, merges with her. It's no longer an invasive presence but rather a living extension of her, humming softly as it sorts and stores away all her vital information. Quorra shakes her head to clear out the ringing in her ear and takes a shaky step to the side. Tron and Yssandra both move towards her but her steps are firm and she looks up to give them both a confident, reassuring smile.

"I'm fine," she says. "Syncing and ISOs don't go well together."

"So I've heard," Yssandra says. She turns sharply, precisely, on her high heels and walks to the waiting lift at the other end of the circular room. "Let's head back up. You need energy to recover from the sync."

The lift carries them back up to the first floor of an abandoned security tower. While Yssandra leaves to check the caches of supplies in another part of the building Quorra wanders over to the control panels of a surveillance room. She stares at the blank screens, wondering what kind of data used to stream across them.

"What did they do here?" she asks and her voice echoes off the flat panels. "What did they look for?"

Tron shifts uneasily behind her. "Before, traffic. Disruptions. Anything that prevented the Grid from running at full capacity, or whatever capacity Flynn wanted it to run at. After...ISOs, and Flynn. Anything that wasn't registered with the system."

Quorra takes her hands off the panels and shoves them in her pockets. "You ever set them off?"

They both know what she's talking about. "No. I was a loophole. Even if you took over one of these towers you wouldn't have found me."

"So you're a ghost."

Even though he doesn't speak she can hear the rumbling. How he managed to ambush ISOs and rebel Basics despite it mystifies her, though it did make him even more terrifying. The only difference now is that it's a quieter hum, much like the whirring of a desktop's cooling fans or the soft purr of a kitten from a pet store in La Jolla.

"An attack dog, and only when the system registered a failure."

Odd, the lump in her throat. The whirring sound is suddenly deafening, full of danger, and she fights the urge to bolt out of the building. "So I was a system failure, and all I did was rise from the Sea."

He says nothing. Quorra closes her eyes and presses her lips together tightly, wonders what she's saying and why. It's Clu she should be taking this out on, because it's Clu who decided that Flynn was no longer capable of running the Grid. It's Clu who decided that, because the ISOs' arrival coincided with increased gridbug attacks and infrastructure failures, they were a system failure that must be eradicated for the Grid to achieve perfection. It's Clu who planned and executed the purge, exterminating everyone she knew and loved until all she had left was an anonymous security program who helped her escape to Flynn and died in the process.

_"I did it."_ Flynn's weary voice floated through her memories. _"I wrote him that way, restricted him, trapped him in that directive. I'm the reason why he did this."_

_If he's you, then that means you could've done the same."_

_"No, Quorra. Users are capable of changing their directives at will. Programs can't unless we do it for them. I wrote him when I thought I could do anything. I thought I could create the perfect system. But I changed, realized that that wasn't possible. He couldn't, though, and I didn't realize he was no longer me until it was too late."_

_"I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? After what he did?"_

_"I can't tell you that. That's your call."_

* * *

><p>Quorra remembers meeting Crystal once, long before the strained relations between the ISOs and the Basics reached the breaking point. She doesn't remember the exact details of their meeting; no matter how hard she tried she couldn't make her disk copy over a precise memory of it. Her new life in the User world must've be the reason why the memory exists as hazy fragments.<p>

"Does the name 'Lux' mean anything to you?" the Siren asks as she pours fuchsia energy into two slender glasses.

Vaguely, yes. A powerfully built program with a quick reflexes and a confident smile. Quorra says, "Kind of. It's been a while."

"You mean you've been on the other side for a while," Crystal replies. "Lux was the only ISO declared Champion of the Gaming Grid. Defeated Tron in the lightcycle match."

Quorra glances at him, expecting a scowl or a reaction equally negative, but he only nods and slides his thumb along the length of the cocktail glass. "He won fair and square. I know that many others weren't happy with that development."

"You were one of a group of ISOs who came to my club to celebrate," Crystal says and takes a sip from the carafe. "That's how I remember you."

No matter how hard she tries Quorra can only get whiffs of memory. She does remember the elation associated with the name, the pride as the announcer's voice boomed in the stadium air declaring Lux the new Champion. She remembers a neon yellow cocktail, laughter, and bitter words from a quartet of Basics in a corner of the establishment.

"You remember me because of the fight," she says, leaning on the counter. "They deserved it, just so you know."

"Like Tron said, Lux won fair and square." A Basic at the far end of the bar calls for Crystal and she picks up her carafe. "Enyo sends her regards; she's stuck with Ixion searching for weapons caches in Zeta."

The name has a familiar ring. Quorra frowns with her lips pressed against the rim of her glass. Where has she heard that name? It feels like something she heard in one of the meetings with the other programmers, a pet project or a codename. If so, then why-did Sam port one of the projects in here for a test run? Didn't he say the system's too unstable for anything but utilities?

"You haven't heard from Sam?" Tron asks.

"I'm sure a _User _can handle himself here just fine. Besides, he has your whole team backing him up. Don't you trust them?"

"I'm not worried about them," he says quietly while the Siren walks away.

Without the Siren - either Siren, or Sam - the awkward silence comes back and grows. She shifts in her perch on the stool, listening to the scattered conversations around them and staring at the pink glow of her cocktail. Now what? Sit here in silence until Sam walks in and says it's time to leave?

She squares her shoulders, starts opening her mouth to say exactly that, and Tron asks, "What's the User world like?"

He asks carefully, each word as precise and steady as a Siren's walk, and yet she stares at him because she knows that's something he'd never ask. Flynn said so often enough.

"Why do you ask?" she says, not bothering with a disclaimer explaining why she knows him this well. "You don't...you never bother with the User world. You always said that off-Grid matters weren't your business."

"I know," Tron replies and she hears a hint of steel in his voice. "I just never had a reason to be interested in them."

"Flynn's absences were for off-Grid reasons."

"I know, and I didn't realize why that was so important until it was too late." Tron leans on his elbows and stares down at his cocktail. There's so much that's not being said but neither of them care to start. Instead the Basic softly says, "It's different now."

_Very different, _she thinks as she sips the tangy cocktail. "It's bright."

At the confusion on Tron's face she adds, "The User world. It's bright. Warm. Sunny. We live in a city like the Grid, but there's...this oldness. There's history written in it and you feel it. And at night it glows."

"So it's not that different from here."

"No, but-" She hesitates over her next words. "It's crowded. Cars everywhere, bumper to bumper traffic, 'time your drives like the seamen watch the tide', it's...it could use a better architect. Can't just go in and rebuild everything, though. It's huge and permanent, even though we're older. It's alive but disorderly. Chaotic. It just _looks _like the Grid."

She's not sure if or where she lost Tron, but he doesn't ask more questions so she presses on. "There's so much color on the other side. There are places that look like the Outlands but they're alive, too. I don't think there's anywhere that nothing ever lives in. When you go down to the beach, the sea is so blue. And the sand is this ugly yellow-gray when it's wet and it feels really, really weird but when the sun is out it's the best feeling in the world. Unless it's dry sand. I think I burned my feet once."

"The sun?"

The sun. The first thing Sam showed her. It peeked over the mountains, warming the cold pale blue sky, and she smiled when she finally felt its rays caress her face. She spent her first week watching it rise and set, marveling at how easily it transformed the new, shiny, old, dingy, smelly, crowded, lively, bright, dim, ugly, beautiful world that she now calls home.

"It's beautiful," she says. "You should see it."

Tron huffs a laugh and finally takes a sip from his glass. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I'm a-" _Program, _Quorra finishes silently. The Basic presses his lips together as he frowns at the backlit panels on the counter. "My place is here."

The conversation comes to a stop as he takes another sip. She sighs and sits back on the stool, feeling a little lost with the conversation's momentum gone. She then notices the low easy beat in the space behind her and turns her head to spot two MP3s standing on a platform behind some panels, conversing in gestures while mixing tracks. One of them has a crack in his helmet.

They escaped the End of Line Club.

"You survived," she murmurs, wondering how that one MP3 came by the injury.

They seem to hear her; as one they tilt their helmeted heads in her direction and wave. She waves back and turns to her drink, starts sliding her cocktail glass across the panels. Crystal is still talking with the program at the far end of the counter; the smile on the Siren's face is strained as she swirls a now-cyan contents of her carafe. Quorra wonders what they're talking about that's bothering her.

"Did you miss the Grid?"

She won't admit that she'd been waiting for him - or another program - to ask her that. With Sam her answer had become easier over time, but now that she's back - only for a few hours, and in the company of Tron - she doesn't know how to say it.

"It hit me on the third week," she begins slowly, drawing her thoughts together. "Realized I was never seeing the Grid again and I couldn't stop crying for a whole day. But...I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would. I still dream of it, but it's not terrible. Sam used to ask me all the time, but besides that one time I never-I stopped crying a really long time ago. After the Purge, I...that doesn't make me a bad person, does it?"

"I don't think so," Tron says.

"I think the Grid stopped being home to me after Arjia City fell. It's hard being comfortable in a place that didn't welcome you. And there was the Sea-" She stops as the image of a blackened sea clouds over her mind. "And there was Clu, and there was the Purge, and when you're always hiding, when you're always on the run, nowhere feels like home anymore."

She sounds shaky, her voice choking up and halting her words. Her ISO mark burns on her arm as something painful and wretched suddenly tears itself away from the uneasy calm she'd maintained during the two hours here.

It had hurt the first several cycles. She'd paced around the first room of the safe house Flynn was building, watching TRON City glow in the distance as she went back and forth; it looked so beautiful and perfect but for her it was now an untouchable wish of what could've been. What should've been. But now Arjia City had fallen. Her friends and allies had been derezzed, captured, or gone underground. Tron had vanished and a new silent creature roamed the sectors, hunting out every last problem to Clu's solution.

All she could do now, the Creator had told her over a game of chess, was to wait for Clu to make a mistake.

_"I'd like to see the sun."_

_"Maybe you will, but you'll have to leave the Grid."_

_"I know. And the portal won't open unless someone's on the other side."_

_"But if you could, would you leave?"_

_"I don't know."_

Tron slowly slides his hand across the space between them and rests his fingers on top of hers. She stares at the circuits on the thumb and first two fingers; they used to bleed red-orange, the fire that Clu used to purify the Grid and purge it of the ISOs. Now they glow a calm and steady blue.

"This isn't the same Grid anymore," Tron says. "It's not much to look at and we still have a lot of work to do, but once the city's fully functional again you're welcome to visit and stay as long as you like."

"He said you wanted the city to be something I can come back to."

"I did. I don't think...you shouldn't leave the Grid behind. That's all."

She looks at the tentative smile on Tron's face and returns it with one of her own. Before she can say something she hears a murmur ripple through the other programs in the club. There's activity somewhere behind them and Sam's voice rising above the noise and the music. She looks and there's Sam near the entrance, talking to a group of blue and green-lit programs. She turns back to Tron and wonders at the sudden light in his face, the tension falling off his shoulders as his eyes find Sam. Then Sam calls them over and the Basic's already off the stool and several long strides away. Quorra reaches out and her outstretched fingers brush his arm, distracting him long enough for her to say:

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Quorra looks down at the runway where the three-man light jet sits. It was found in a hidden cache but in poor shape; Sam had spent an hour repairing and modifying its code to make it airborne again. In that time he talked about the gridbug swarm that the program Cyrus had been tracking with Sam's new code and a run-in with a sector leader at the outskirts of her territory.<p>

"Couldn't catch her," he said as he slid in a new line of code and a turbine materialized under a wing. "How the hell did she find all those mines, anyway?"

"We found empty weapons caches all over the city," Tron explained. He never budged from Sam's side, arms crossed and eyes watching him input code. "Someone's been collecting them."

"Has to be a security program," Quorra said. "Nobody else would know of those caches or have access to them... unless it's Zuse. You said he was alive the last time you saw him."

Sam paused while Tron said, "There's a high probability that he's involved in this. We lost his trail in Gamma two centicycles ago, though. He knows how to hide his tracks."

"Programs don't just disappear without a trace. Ask Enyo to find him." Sam minimized the jet's code and stood up. "Q, she's all yours."

The force of the wind from the portal finally hits her when she reaches the top of the stairs and she braces herself against its push. The portal roars at the heart of the platform, a tower of light and power. She stares up at it, hand shielding most of the glare and keeping her bangs from whipping her face, and then looks down at the narrow retractable bridge connecting the outer ring with the portal at the center.

The last time she was here she was pushing Sam back towards the hurricane, with Flynn's master disk radiating heat and power through her body from her dock. She'd thought, hopefully, that the switch was just a ploy to throw Clu off-track so that they could stop him together, but that would've been too easy and Flynn knew his own creation too well.

_"Are you sure about this? He'll come after me because I'm-"_

_"It's me he wants, Quorra. I matter more. He won't care about you until after he deals with me, meaning this is safer with you."_

_"Don't you think he'll suspect it?"_

_"Nah. He's this close to getting what he wants, he can't think of anything else but getting the disk off of _me_."_

_"So you know what you're doing."_

_"Of course I do. Hey, if we pull this off maybe you'll get to see the sun."_

Quorra blinks and the voices fade away, replaced by the constant howl of the whirlwind before her. She starts moving towards the bridge and then realizes that Sam's not here. He's off to the side with Tron, deep in conversation. They stand so close, heads almost bumping against each other, and-oh.

They're kissing.

Why-

_Oh._

Somewhere in the back of her head the light bulb Sam always jokes about switches on. Suddenly the scattered instances and casual observations and Sam's refusal to let ENCOM get in the way of his scheduled visits to the Grid and his annoyance at Mr. Bradley's teasing about them make much more sense. She stares, though, because she didn't see it coming at all, and because they're just so…sweet about it, which isn't a word she'd ever use to describe them. And then she realizes she's still staring, flushes, and quickly looks away.

Awkward. Very awkward. She clears her throat because the embarrassment was constricting it, and then heads to the bridge. Halfway across she turns around to see if Sam's following her. He's still with Tron, fingers curving carefully around the Basic's face; he says something and Tron nods, kisses him, and steps back. Tron watches them - watches Sam - walk across the bridge to the portal, eyes wistful but mouth curved upward in a contented smile. She thinks he should smile like that more often.

Sam stops halfway across and looks over his shoulder, says something that's half lost to the wind. "...with us?"

Tron shakes his head. She can barely hear him. "Stop asking me that. You know the answer."

"I know," Sam says nonchalantly, but Quorra seriously thinks he's going to run back across the bridge. "Just asking. See you later."

She waits until he's standing right next to her, looking up at the pillar of light, and then asks, "Should I take off my disk, too?"

"Mine's the master key," Sam replies loudly. "It should work for the both of us. Come on."

He unhooks his disk and steps into the portal. She follows a half step behind and faces him, watches him lift his arms up and let the disk float out of his hands. The portal starts pulsing as it reads his disk, preparing for that burst of energy that'll send them back to the other side.

"So," she says and already Sam looks like a deer in the headlights. "That's why Mr. Bra-Alan thinks we're dating?"

"Something like that." He looks a bit sheepish. "Sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Thought it would be awkward...and weird."

She thinks about it. "Well, no. I mean, I didn't expect it at all and I have no idea how you and-how that works and this is _Tron_, who looks like-"

"Let's not go there."

There's that final push, the light brightening until she has to shut her eyes to block it out. Right before she closes them she sees Sam look away - to where Tron would be - and then the portal envelops them. The rush is not unlike a roller coaster's momentum, hurtling her through space; she feels her DNA convert from code to flesh and blood, feels the neutral chill bleed warm and slightly musty, and hears the whirring hum of the servers somewhere to her left.

She takes a staggering step to her right as her body readapts to the gravity's pull and her knee gives way. Sam catches her before she runs into the wall and holds her up while she waits for the vertigo to stop.

"Takes a while getting used to," he says.

"Figured that out the first time," she replies and takes several deep breaths. Her heart's still out of control but the room isn't rocking back and forth anymore. "Okay, you can let go now."

She turns and leans against the solid wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest, and watches Sam sit back down in the chair and turn to the touch screen. They don't talk for a few minutes; she watches him type several commands that shut down the digitizer and study the Grid code while upstairs the jukebox selects Peter Schilling to sing about Major Tom coming home.

"How was it?" he finally asks.

"The Grid? Or being stuck with Tron?"

He winces. "Was it that bad?"

"He was Rinzler," she says. She sees him flinch, sees his jaw clench at the name. "I know he's not anymore, but it's...hard to forget what he did to us."

"But he changed. He's Tron now. He's what he's supposed to be. He won't hurt you anymore-"

"I know. You left us alone for two hours, remember? Here I am, still alive. And even if he was still Rinzler he's useless without Clu. But..." Quorra tilts her head back against the brick wall and closes her eyes, recalls the trepidation when she faced her former hunter. "It was pretty bad, Sam. Too many memories between us, and they weren't good. A few months can't make up for twenty years."

Sam sighs heavily. "Man I fucked that up."

"You tried. It's just too soon, for the both of us." She can't stop thinking about those two hours, though. The city is still beautiful, even though it's nothing like the thriving metropolis she once loved or the cold efficient attempt at perfection that she hid from, and Tron invited her back, told her that no matter how she feels about the Grid now she shouldn't leave it behind forever.

Her return to the Grid didn't take as long as Sam's but she feels that shift inside her, like a previously shut door swinging open and freeing her. She still wants to tell Mr. Bradley everything, but it's no longer the only means by which she can feel like herself again.

_My name is Quorra. I'm an isomorphic algorithm and..._

"But honestly?" she says. "I think we're gonna be okay."


	5. Like Electric Champagne

**Author's Note:** This chapter is also a fill for the prompt "Tron/User, Circuit blowjob" at the Tron Kink Meme.

**Rated M.**

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**5: Like Electric Champagne**

Sam should be paying attention. They're talking about the bombs found planted around the foundations of future memory bank towers, which is coming hot on the heels of several coordinated attacks on I/O towers throughout the city. These weren't even the topics he had planned on discussing when he arrived for a routine visit; he was all set to talk about reopening the Game Grid when Enyo told him bluntly to hold off porting more programs, the ones native to the Grid aren't comfortable with these new faces and more complex functions. And _that _was before Ixion informed them of the bombs.

But instead of listening to Enyo and Ed's doppelganger discuss their list of possible suspects with interjections from two system utility programs, including Flynn's old Shaddox, Sam's sliding his foot across the floor under the black table and nudging Tron's. The security program's only acknowledgement is to furrow his eyebrows as he studies a data pad and Sam frowns, annoyed. It's been two days going on three, and the warning to get to the portal before it closes came and went hours ago. The Grid's latest problems have devoured every second of his visit but he's not leaving until after he spends some time with Tron.

Alone.

He nudges Tron's foot again and earns a glare as Tron moves it out of reach. Sam is nothing if not persistent and switches tactics, inches forward on his seat until his toes touch the program's lower leg. Sam glances quickly at the other programs in the room but they're preoccupied with a holographic map of one of the newest sectors; he smirks as he slides his foot up, watches the way Tron's fingers curl around the data pad in his hands as he tries to concentrate.

"...that would create a bottleneck-"

"_But _much easier to monitor the traffic going in and out..."

He swivels his foot, rubbing the instep along the inside of Tron's calf. Tron throws him another glare and this time Sam doesn't even bother hiding his grin as he moves his foot up - and remembers too late that there's a circuit under the program's knee. He freezes at the sudden shivering rush of energy; the data pad in Tron's hands cracks and the holographic map flickers.

Enyo stops talking. Sam quickly pulls his foot back and straightens himself while the search program looks his way. The others haven't noticed - or they're pretending not to - and are still talking with Ixion about stationing his antivirus team at the undeveloped borders of TRON City-oh, so they changed topics at some point. Sam really should pay attention; he _is _the User, after all.

"Didn't the first warning go off half a millicycle ago?" Enyo asks, cutting Shaddox off.

"Yeah."

Her eyes flick to Tron, whose face is a blank wall but whose circuits are glowing brighter than normal. She raises an eyebrow and then turns to the others. "I think we know what we're doing for the next several millicycles."

The other system utility, Io, opens her mouth but Enyo is already minimizing the holographic map and rising to her feet; her seat collapses back into a series of circular circuits on the floor as she collects a few data pads. The others follow her lead, with a baffled Io pointing at something on her primary data pad to Shaddox as they walks out of the room.

"Ixion," Tron says, eyes somehow still glued to the data pad, "bring your team to the Training Grid in three millicycles."

"Three millicycles. Got it." Ed's antivirus program then turns to Enyo, who's standing by the door. "So, have you considered-"

"No. That's not what shortcuts are meant for. You know what you need to do. Go do it."

Sam watches Ixion deflate at the latest rejection and leave the room. "He still hasn't given up, has he?"

"Oh he tries." Enyo makes a face as she looks at one of the data pads in her arm, then shuffles it to the bottom of the small stack. She looks up and says, "You have half a millicycle to get to the portal, if you didn't already know."

"You don't have to keep reminding me," Sam says, looking over his shoulder through the glass wall at the bright star in the sky. "I know what I'm doing."

She nods slowly as her eyes slide to Tron, who's still reading the cracked screen as he slowly makes his way to the door. "I'll see you in thirty centicycles, then." Halfway out of the room she adds, "And try not to overload this sector."

Sam flushes, scowls at her back as she disappears. He looks at Tron, who's still incredibly _engrossed _by the security updates on that data pad, then back over his shoulder at the portal's light shining deep in the Outlands. Four hours. He should've brought Quorra with him to the arcade tonight. Four hours isn't enough time.

So he does the next best thing, quickly crossing the room and slamming his hand against the wall before Tron reaches the doorway. The door slides shut and the program stops, finally lifts his head up to frown at it; he then turns around as Sam starts crowding him against the door.

"What are you-"

"Shut up," Sam says and kisses him.

Tron rumbles as he presses his tongue into his mouth, sucks on it and draws a low moan out of Sam's throat as he pushes the program hard against the door. He shudders as Tron slides his free hand up the circuit on his back and swears again at himself for not having someone monitoring the Grid from the other side. It's been too long for his liking and now he's starving for it; his fingers twitch, begging to remap the hard planes and circuits of Tron's body, and who cares that he has to leave soon?

Unfortunately Tron still has his wits about him, is the one pulling away and hoarsely saying, "We have to go."

"Yeah, I know." He cracks an eye open and is immediately drawn to the blazing circuits running down Tron's front. "Just...give me a second."

"Sam-"

He covers the program's mouth with his hand, grins when Tron glares at him, and then bows his head and breathes out over the four circuits on his sternum. Tron twitches, then moans as Sam licks one of the squares; the hot-cold buzz of energy shivers through him, vibrating his circuits and forming a tight ball of heat in his chest. Sam keeps his hand on Tron's mouth and bends his knees at a slight angle as his lips skim over the warm surface to the large circuit on the left side of Tron's chest.

The first slide of his tongue over it has Tron jerking against him and he plants his other hand on Tron's side, pushes him back against the wall before he knocks Sam flat on his ass. Tron rumbles but stays put, drags his fingertips all the way up the circuit on his back and buries them in his hair. Sam hisses, shuts his eyes tightly as pleasure ricochets through his body, and tilts his head up.

"D-don't," he says harshly.

"Don't what?"

He tries to catch his breath but his heart is racing, his circuits throbbing, and he's falling apart way too fast. He swallows hard, hears the pounding in his head as he says, "Don't touch me. Let me...let me do this."

Tron frowns, pupils flickering neon blue. "I'm not following you here. What-"

His voice abruptly cuts off at another stroke over his circuit and curls his fingers against the back of Sam's head. The cracked data pad falls out of his other hand, bounces on its side, and slides away.

Sam traces the edges of the circuit with the tip of his tongue, feels Tron struggle to stay still as he pulls back and breathes over it. The light fluctuates, blazing blue-white, and the program keens, pressing the flat of his hand against the wall as he tries to do everything but grab onto Sam. Sam glances up as his mouth hovers over the circuit and all he can see is the long tense line of Tron's neck. It's there for Sam to kiss and mouth and graze with his teeth but they don't have that kind of time. Still he stares at it as he slowly slides down, watches Tron press back against the wall and shiver as he drags the tip of his tongue along a short circuit line over the program's stomach.

He can't remember the last time he went down on his knees - it was so long ago, he was so drunk, and he never went back; whatever he remembers is nothing compared to the otherwise surreal situation of coaxing a program along with just his mouth, for the electric feel of the circuit against his lips. The corners of his mouth curve upward as he presses the flat of his tongue against a small circuit low on Tron's stomach, feels the program twitch and squirm while hot-cold shivers through him.

The light panels on the wall Sam's pushed Tron up against flicker and he stops, abruptly reminded of Enyo's teasing warning; like falling dominoes he then remembers that he should leave now if he's going to make it to the portal in time. He wavers for a second too long and Tron growls, drags his fingers over the back of Sam's head.

This time it's Tron who says, "Don't," in a broken, needy voice. But when Sam looks up, breathless and shivering and fighting the cold sinking feeling in his chest, Tron has already accepted the inevitable. The want in his gray eyes clash with resignation as he toys with the short hairs at the back of Sam's neck and Sam sighs, presses his forehead to the program's stomach and listens to the quieting hum.

"You have to go."

Sam studies the glowing circuit under the program's knee. "Yeah."

He feels Tron move and leans back, gives him space as he slowly slides down the wall onto the floor. Tron's circuits are still too bright and his hair's disheveled from where Sam briefly ran his hand through it, but there's nothing but regret in the slump of his shoulders, in his expression as he slowly reaches out and touches the side of Sam's face. Sam closes his eyes, feels his circuits warm pleasantly as Tron lets his fingers linger along his jaw, and wishes desperately that he didn't have to worry about the portal.

"Thirty centicycles," he says. "Over two days. I can't wait that long."

"What can you do?" Tron asks. "You have a life to lead on the other side; you can't stay here for as long as you want-"

"I _know_," Sam says a little angrier than he means to and regrets it when Tron pulls his hand back. He bows his head, stares at his hands as he rubs the simulated material wrapped around his thumbs and index and middle fingers. "I know. Can't do what Dad did, can't just...let everything fall apart. But I-we just can't catch a break, can we?"

That draws a rueful smile out of Tron. He leans forward, hands curving around Sam's face, and pulls him in for a soft kiss. Sam curls his fingers tightly, afraid that touching the program will just unravel what self-control reality jolted back into him. Instead he runs his tongue along Tron's bottom lip, sucks it in between his and feels the whirring purr vibrate from the program's throat into his mouth. He releases the bottom lip and presses his forehead to Tron's, breathing hotly against his mouth and wondering what his answer will be this time.

"Come with me," Sam murmurs in between open-mouthed kisses.

He waits for the quiet, firm, "No," and a brief reminder that Tron's place is on the Grid but all Tron does is go still. It's not what Sam expected and he sits back, opens his eyes to see Tron frowning deeply as he stares at something on the floor.

"Tron?"

The program looks up, appearing indecisive for once. "I...I've been thinking about it."

Sam's heart starts racing.

"I don't know. I'm a program, I belong _here_, my purpose is _here_. That's how it's always been. But with you," and he rubs his thumb along the curve of Sam's jaw, "I kind of...I want to know what it's like, on the other side."

"The Users' world," Sam says, leaning into the touch. "Swear it's not all bad. What really matters is that I can control the portal." He tilts his head and kisses the inside of Tron's wrist. "Don't have to worry about time."

He watches Tron's circuits flicker at the touch, sees a shift in the program's eyes, and it sparks something hot and heavy; Sam forces himself to pulls away. He looks over his shoulder at the lights of the city and the star in the sky, then turns back around and asks in a voice that's not quite _there_, "So are you?"

Tron shakes his head. "Don't know. I'll tell you the next time you visit."

"Thirty centicycles," Sam repeats as Tron unfolds himself and rises to his feet. He glances at the proffered hand, then grabs it and lets the program haul him up. "I don't think I can wait that long."

"Think of it this way," Tron says as he walks over to the forgotten data pad and picks it up. "Thirty centicycles is enough time for us to find the programs that planted the bombs and secure the sector. When you come back we'll have less to deal with..."

Sam waits for him to come back to his side before leaving the room, shivers when Tron briefly touches the circuit over his right shoulder blade.

"...and more time on our hands."


	6. Strawberries

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Strawberries" from _7rainbowprompts_.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**6: Strawberries [Red]**

"Okay, now who decided to oh so enthusiastically tell the _Times_ guy who came by last week that we were going to, and I quote, 'kick Steve Jobs' ass'?"

Everyone looks at Roy. "What? We are. Once we get the Slate out-"

"You didn't tell him about that, did you?"

Roy crosses his arms, sits back in his chair, and gives Alan a look. "Oh come on. Besides, if I did you'd already know about it."

"Just checking." He glances at the time. 12:08:19. Where the hell are they? "I guess that's it, then. Meeting's over; have lunch, go do your thing. Eileen-" She almost collides with Junior as she stops in her tracks. "-I'll come by later, see what your team came up with."

"Sure thing, Mr. Bradley-Alan. Sorry."

Junior smirks as he follows Eileen out, leaving Alan and Roy, who props his feet up on the glass table and says, "Makes you feel old, doesn't it?"

"You're not helping." He checks his phone. "What's taking them so long?"

"Well it's not like Flynn was punctual all the time," Roy says helpfully. "You were keeping tally of every day he came in at twelve. Three times he was buying you a new popcorn machine-"

"He did."

"Five times he was taking us out for drinks-"

"They threw us out when he wouldn't stop singing Journey."

"Seven times everyone was getting Friday off that week. Ten times-"

"We got pie!" Quorra sticks her head into the room and holds up a Marie Callender's bag. "It's strawberry! All of them! Did you know they were in season?"

Alan pushes his glasses up to pinch his nose bridge. "Did he buy it for the whole floor?"

"The building! There's a truck downstairs!"

After she leaves Roy dryly adds, "He buys everyone dinner."


	7. Weather Girl

**Author's Note:** It's partially RL and the necessity of finishing this fic before all else that kept me from updating for such a long time. I'm finally done with it, though, so start expecting semiregular updates in the future.

This note is going to be a long one, but I suggest you don't skip it for the fic. This chapter isn't what you probably hope it is. If you didn't already know I wrote the chapters of _Le Disko_ out of chronological order and am only now reorganizing them into something that makes a little more sense.

This particular chapter bounces around the timeline quite a bit, going from near the beginning of _Le Disko_ to very close to the end. One of the two main viewpoint characters in _Weather Girl_ is an OFC who has been referred to in a previous chapter; she first appeared in a chapter I wrote before this one, but that chapter takes place near the end of the timeline. See what I mean by everything being out of chronological order?

I guess that's enough rambling for now.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**7: Weather Girl**

They had to build a brand new I/O port for this task. Compatibility issues, one of the main obstacles to achieving a functioning Grid. What Flynn designated the TRON System has twenty years of massive technological advances to catch up on.

The problem, Sam thought sourly, was that while it was easy enough upgrading some of the hardware it was ridiculously difficult getting the Grid's code to behave and accept the changes. Progress was crawling at a snail's pace and it didn't care that several days' worth on the Grid was supposed to show itself impressively in an hour's worth in his world.

"So did Dad write all the program here or did he port you guys in from somewhere else?" he asked as he successfully wrestled a segment of new code into a part of a semi-transparent wall. Inner wall. According to the data pad Nyx held out for him this one was part of a set of double walls meant to separate the lobby/adaptation rooms from the interfaces and the portal.

"He ported very few programs from other systems," the Siren said. "Acclimation is, Enyo tells me, 'trying'. You can ask Tron about it."

Sam frowned, then remembered that Tron was Alan's program, written for ENCOM's network back in '82. He definitely wasn't around when Flynn first set up the system underneath the arcade. Sam made a mental note to ask both programs later and glanced at the data pad to see what was next.

Given the program he and Quorra were writing, this shouldn't be a problem.

* * *

><p>Alive is the rush of white heat flooding outward from the disk dock. Alive is the sets of directives and subroutines coming online simultaneously, flooding circuits and code with<em> purpose<em>. Alive is the first deep breath that breaks the barrier and allows her to feel the system.

Until her sensors crash into a barrier, an impenetrable wall giving off an oddly familiar signature. They try again but it doesn't let her pass. Her directives are denied permission and she remains in suspension, waiting for her Users to give it so that the system can cut her loose.

"...hang on-_oh_. Knock it off, she's not hostile. Let her in."

And suddenly she's _alive_.

Her eyes open and start scanning her surroundings. This is the inner sanctum of an I/O port, and surrounding her are several of the system's security programs. She takes a good look at the two standing in front of her and-one of them is not a program.

"Identify yourself," the other says, leveling stern gray eyes at her.

They both feel familiar to her. She feels a camaraderie with the one who is a program, feels a tug towards him and the other programs surrounding her as if they're meant to be one functioning unit. The signature of the other one-the signature of the _User _runs deep in her code but someone else is missing and she looks around the inner sanctum.

"Relax, man. Don't scare her," the User-_SamFlynn _says and gives her a warm smile. "So, what's your name?"

Her name comes to mind and tips out of her lips into the humming atmosphere.

"My name is Azeri."

* * *

><p>"He wants another Anon," Quorra said after a long moment. "Makes sense; Tron can't be everywhere all the time."<p>

"Anon?" Sam echoed. "What, you mean 'Anonymous'?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. That's what Flynn designated him. He was a system monitor program specifically written to help Tron maintain peace between ISOs and Basics. He died helping me get out of the city."

Sam paused the game and set the controller down before turning to her. She continued to stare straight at the mounted TV, unblinking and fingers clutching her controller a little too tightly. Marvin continued to sleep next to her, head in her lap, oblivious to the sudden change in mood.

"Q-" Sam began but she shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Sorry. It's been so long, and living here it all seemed so far away. Sometimes I forget what it used to be like before everything went to-went to hell, right? That's what you say?"

He reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezed it once to get her to look at him. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe now."

"I know." She gave him a shaky but brilliant smile, and then held up her controller. "Keep playing?"

After fifteen more minutes they took a break and he ordered pizza while she poked at the prototype Slate. After he hung up she said, "I can help you write the program. I know what he's looking for."

* * *

><p>"Show me what you can do."<p>

She stands in the center of the Training Grid, facing Tron. The ground hums of malleable code that's ready to generate whatever simulated scenario Tron wishes. She's seen the sims, watched his team move through the artificial landscapes and fend off gridbugs and hostile programs. Is that why she was written? Was this system so unstable that programs performed processes and accessed resources as they pleased, preventing the Grid from functioning and creating destructive gridbug swarms?

She wonders if he intends to set a simulated gridbug swarm on her and is surprised when he instead reaches behind him to remove his disk. She raises an eyebrow at this unexpected turn, and then takes an involuntary step back when Tron shifts his stance and rezzes a glossy black helmet over his head.

He intends to fight her. Fine. Azeri unlatches her disk from its dock and mimics his pose, crouching low and gathering herself for the first move, the first strike. Her helmet unfolds from the back of her neck, around her high ponytail, and downward in a cascade, shielding her face. As soon as data starts streaming across the helmet's surface he strikes.

Tron takes the role of the aggressor, flinging his disk at her and-wait, where'd he get the second one from? She twists away from the streaking blue disk, then drops low to let the second whizz by her head. They ricochet off the clear walls rising out of the ground and closing around them like a cage, and return to their owner.

_My turn. _She darts forward, throws her disk at the ground next to his left foot, and darts to his right. Her eyes never leave her disk, tracks its movements as she slams her forearm into Tron's exposed side and meets space. He's already twisting away, sliding back across the floor; she spins around to face him, her disk almost within reach, and stares at the blazing blue disk headed for her head.

She jerks away but the disk's white-hot edge grazes her helmet as it spins by. A few pieces of hot code fall to the ground and she sweeps them away with her foot, shivering.

"Trying to kill me already?" she demands as she hefts her disk in her hand and hears Tron's bounce off the angled wall behind her.

"I hope not," Tron says and throws his other disk at her.

She blocks it easily and then drops to her knees to let the first disk pass over her left shoulder. Her eyes sweep over the angles of their cage, tracing pathways, and settles on a viable one; she turns her wrist as she rises to her feet and slings her disk at a slanted wall behind Tron. The ricochet is perfect and the disk bounces off the prerequisite walls, barely avoids Tron's second disk, and streaks towards the Basic's chest. Tron flings himself back to avoid it and lands in an ungraceful heap on the floor.

Her upper hand lasts less than a second. Tron leaps to his feet and deflects her disk on its way back to her. Swearing, she takes off after it, watching Tron run...at the nearest wall.

"What the-"

Their cage lurches and she suddenly realizes what's about to happen. She snatches her disk out of the air and slams its edge into the wall. The code protests, trying to repair itself and force the disk out; she puts her weight behind it and the disk sinks in. The cage shifts violently and starts flipping over; she grips her disk tightly as her feet lose contact with the floor and hang in the air. She watches Tron on the other side, running up the wall and then down to the new designated floor towards her.

As soon as her feet touch the floor Azeri wrenches her disk out of the wall and uses the force as a momentum, lets it carry her around to block Tron's blow. She uses her forearm to block his other arm, then tries to hook her foot around his ankle and knock him off his feet. He shifts his weight to his other foot and quickly takes advantage of her brief loss of balance; he slams his elbow into her chest, right under one of her main circuits, and then kicks her across the arena.

Her helmet cracks as she hits the floor; the stream of data disappears as bits of code chip off. Her sensors and subroutines stutter and try to access the damage as she pushes herself up on trembling arms. Where's Tron-

Overhead. She throws herself out of the way and rolls right over her disk; she swipes it off the floor and leaps back to her feet right before he can kick her back down.

"Good," she thinks he says. Then the vibrant hum of activated disks crashing against each other drown the half-formed memories.

It doesn't take an upgrade to know that Tron is superior to her, though that could be attributed to his part-sysadmin status. She feels that vibration of power as she counters his every blow with her disk, her forearm, her elbow; it's a bit jarring, a bit intimidating, and it starts to wear her down. She pushes back against him as best as she can - her Users didn't write her on a whim, she's supposed to be able to hold her ground against unauthorized programs and system failures - but she blocks more than she strikes and she starts backing up, step by step, across the floor. The wall is coming up behind her and if he corners her, pins her down so that she can't fight back, he wins their match.

_Not yet. _She ducks a blow, twists away from the second, and drives her elbow into his side. Her foot catches on something, though, and she tumbles to the floor, losing her grip on her disk. It's within reach and she scrambles for it.

Tron's foot comes down on it and she looks up at the black helmet. It collapses away, revealing his face.

"Not bad," he says and nudges her disk to her. He waits for her to sit up and then extends his hand. She takes it and he hauls her back onto her feet. "You started slowing down towards the end. Why's that?"

The cage collapses around them and the walls meld back into the floor. A cold wave washes in, soothing her heated circuits, and she sighs in relief. She opens her eyes to see Tron walking towards the activated lift at the far end of the Training Grid and jogs after him.

"I'm meant to assist you, not challenge you," she says as she matches him stride for stride. "Will that be a problem?"

"Not yet," he replies. He turns sharply on his heels and folds his arms behind his back, looks straight ahead. She looks at his stance curiously as the lift sinks under the Grid's surface.

"Don't worry," she says while seeing if she can mimic him without being obvious. "I won't trip over my feet while monitoring the sectors."

Tron smirks as the lift stops at the Armory. Cyrus and Yssandra are waiting for them. "Cyrus?"

"Three weapon caches in Eta. Caix and Zaller are on their way to extract them. Enyo wants you to see her. It's about Zuse; she traced him back to the Library."

Tron frowns. "How'd he get in?"

"That's why Enyo wants to see you." Cyrus flicks at something on his data pad. "Activity at the border of Tau and Upsilon. Don't know if it's hostile."

"Azeri?"

She nods. "On it."

"Don't overstep your directive," Tron says as she steps off the lift and Cyrus takes her place. "Ixion should be on his way to assist."

She watches them leave and turns to Yssandra. "I need a baton."

The Siren motions to one of the walls; the panels retract, revealing seven batons and three beam katanas. Azeri takes one of each and attaches the katana's handle to the holster on her thigh.

"Good luck," Yssandra says as she leaves the Armory.

* * *

><p>Writing a program for Tron wasn't the hard part. He could code blindfolded while hanging upside down off the top of ENCOM Tower if it didn't give Alan, the board, and all of the shareholders heart attacks. This code did require a bit of tweaking since the system Sam inherited was quite different from the system Flynn created which was quite different from UNIX. Actually, judging by how often Quorra shoved his chair away to review the code and do the tweaking, the program's code required a lot of it.<p>

"Definitely not in Kansas anymore," he muttered as he soaked up the latest changes Quorra made.

"In what?"

"Kansas. Wizard of Oz. Swore I showed you the movie; it's a classic."

At the end of the day - the second day; he's going back to the Grid tomorrow, and why did tomorrow have to be a Friday and not a Saturday? - he joined Quorra and they walked down the hall to the elevator. He'd been entertaining an idea that almost made him miss his meeting with Legal but something about it just didn't feel right. He wanted her opinion on it.

"Say this works," he started.

"Of course it'll work," she said. "You wrote it."

"_We _wrote it. It's your program, too." Quorra smiled at the reminder, eyes bright and pleased. "Say this works, spectacularly. Would you add the program to our lineup?"

Her expression turned thoughtful. "It's a companion firewall; it's meant to coordinate with Tron, and we don't have the equivalent of Tron here."

"We can-tweaking it isn't hard."

She looked at him curiously and he wondered if he'd given himself away. He kept expecting her to rephrase herself - "You wrote it for _him_." - even though she never would because that's not who she was. It's what she kept saying in his head, though.

He used to not give a second thought to what he did for the Grid. The system was outdated and outclassed by the modern operating systems; he didn't have to worry himself with writing experimental code and not sharing any of it with the company. There was nothing particularly glamorous or innovative about repairing a broken twenty-year-old system. But now he and Quorra had written a brand new program, a firewall that could work in conjunction with and independently of the main security monitor program. It wouldn't be hard to modify some of the code, toss it to the programmers, and say, "What would you do with it?"

But the doubt in his head, wrapped up in Quorra's bright but wary tones, wouldn't stop pointing out that, "You wrote it for _him_." This was something he did for Tron, only because Tron asked. Was it right to take something he created as a gift and use it to help ENCOM? Tron wouldn't know. Tron wouldn't care, but Sam would.

"Besides," Quorra suddenly said, "there's Ixion.

Ed's pet project. The antivirus suite that's going on the market next month, compatible with all operating systems. It wouldn't look good if Quorra introduced a newer, better firewall program than the one in the suite within weeks of its launch. Sam shuddered at the idea of annoyed emails and phone calls flooding his inbox and overwhelming his phone.

"Alan said the only reason why the shareholders hadn't complained the past few months was because of Ixion," Quorra added. "Remember? They were worried about you. Thought you might do what Flynn did."

"I remember," he said with a heavy sigh. "Fine. Let Ed get all the glory. Have to test the program out anyway. Need to see if it works exactly as he wants it to."

He couldn't help but wonder how Tron would greet him tomorrow. Would he be all businesslike and ask about the status of the monitor program, or would he drag Sam off to a secured, secluded part of the sector? He shivered at the thought of the latter option and disguised it poorly with a not-too-casual roll of his sore shoulders. Next time, he told himself, he was taking Roy's advice and walking around his office every thirty minutes when he's programming and not juggling several meetings, phone calls, a hefty volume of passive-aggressive email, and people who keep walking in and acting all surprised when they see him there.

Six and a half months and they _still _couldn't get over him being large and in charge of ENCOM.

"So what are we doing tonight?" Quorra asked when they were somewhere between the fifth and fourth floor.

"Dunno. Wanna grab something at Philippe's?"

* * *

><p>"Could've been worse," Enyo says, frowning at the crisscrossing footwork under the piles of cold broken code. She nudges a deactivated disk and Sen snaps it up.<p>

"Could've gone a lot better," Cyrus replies. "There's just no way they could've gotten this far into the city without tripping something.'

The problem, Azeri thinks as she watches Enyo follows the general direction of the programs' trail down the street and left over the sidewalk and between two towers, is that this wasn't a random act of sabotage. They got this far because they knew where they were going and what they were targeting. _Who_, rather.

"Take these back to headquarters and trace them," Tron says, handing Cyrus three disks and Sen two. "Caix, Zaller, you're with me. Azeri, follow Enyo."

The footsteps lead them to the border of a defunct sector. Azeri looks up at the sky-high silhouettes while Enyo tuts quietly. She wonders when SamFlynn will bring this one back to life.

"How many times is it now?" Enyo asks as she steps over the distinct boundary between an active and an inactive sector.

Azeri takes a deep breath before following suit; there's no physical barrier she has to pass through, but she can feel the shift deep in her code. A distinct chill settles in and she becomes acutely aware of the emptiness, the lack of activity and life that usually throbs through the streets and hums underfoot. She rubs at a blue circuit on the inside of her arm as she follows Enyo deeper into the sector.

"The third," Azeri answers. The only hum she can feel comes from Enyo. They're the only distinct sources of light on this wide street, they and the footprints leading them deeper into the sector. "Different location, different programs, different tactics, but the goal is the same."

"Does he know?"

She thinks back, recalls the grim line of his mouth and the sudden stiffness in his stance and his words as he ordered the others to do a sweep of the sector. "He doesn't talk about it."

"Of course he won't," Enyo says. "Oh. This could be a problem."

"What?"

Enyo points at her feet and Azeri realizes that the trail they'd been following has ended at a pile of code. She steps forward and crouches down, sifting through the bits and pieces, but the disks are missing.

"There has to be another trail."

"Except I can't find it," Enyo says crossly. "It should be-" She lifts her hand and slides her fingers through the air. Her circuits briefly intensify and then they see it, a faint green trace making a straight line for a sector beyond this one. "Upsilon."

Upsilon is the sector infested with faulty programs. If one was looking for a seedy place to hide from the likes of Tron and Ixion, Upsilon would be it. Shaddox's best efforts to clear the clutter and make it functional only made a bigger mess of things, and it's been earmarked for SamFlynn to take on when he returns.

"Do we try," Azeri asks, "or do we make a note and return to Alpha?"

Enyo doesn't answer but she starts tracing the faint green path. Azeri sweeps around the immediate area - empty buildings, empty streets, a search program and a monitor tracking a light jet's trail - and follows her through the sector. Several minutes in, Azeri notices a tower partially destroyed by what looks like gridbugs. Then another appears, the jagged edges of the walls in sharp relief to the smooth and seamless rise of the others around it. Soon they're walking through a field of destruction, the ground littered with code and deactivated disks. Azeri moves to pick one up.

"Leave it," Enyo says tightly. "These are cycles old."

The search program sidesteps the debris with incredible precision, her feet landing _here_ and_ there _and nowhere else. Azeri follows her to the other side and they continue following the wispy trail. She wonders how Enyo can make it reveal itself if the program they're following reaches a higher altitude while making its escape to Upsilon but somehow the green line remains within reach of her fingertips.

Minutes pass as they weave through the sector. Then Enyo breaks the silence with, "Ever wonder what a program's User was thinking during the compilation process?"

Azeri blinks and the focused intent on Enyo's face shifts to open curiosity at her. "Compilation process?"

"Until I met Flynn," Enyo begins, "I never thought much of Users other than my own. Thanks to him I sometimes wonder what Julia-59 was thinking while she was compiling me. Anyone tell you what happened on the Grid?"

_Flynn, Flynn, Flynn, not SamFlynn, not her User, but- _"Cyrus told me."

Enyo nods. "A Codified Likeness Utility in the image of Flynn, _but _in the image of Flynn when he wrote CLU."

Azeri has no idea where Enyo's train of thought is headed. "I don't understand."

"Users are the most fascinating things," Enyo says. "They're not like us-"

"Of course they're not."

"They change, all the time. The Sam we talked with two centicycles isn't the same as the Sam who helped us deal with that massive gridbug swarm six centicycles ago. Which Sam do you think compiled you?"

Azeri shifts uneasily at the thought. She only knows one SamFlynn and that's her User, the one who flashes her a grin and a thumbs-up whenever she sees him. And there's the other User, Qu0rra. Azeri never met her, has no idea what she's like, but she can feel her guiding touch deep in her subroutines.

"I have two Users," she finally says.

"So which Sam and which Quorra," Enyo amends. She stops in her tracks and turns on the heels of her feet to tilt her head up to Azeri. "What do you think they wanted when they compiled you?"

"What they wanted - me. Why's this suddenly relevant?" Azeri asks.

"How a program's written affects her ability to function."

Azeri clenches her fists until her circuits throb in protest. Is Enyo questioning her competence? "I think I followed my directive to the code back there."

"Hey, hey, I'm not saying that," Enyo says quickly. "Everyone did great. Everyone did what they were supposed to do."

"So what are you getting at?"

"Just an observation," Enyo says. She turns around and picks up the trail again. "I just wonder why you took such care to protect Tron."

Azeri stares after her as she walks down the street to an intersection and makes a right, following the light jet trail towards Upsilon.

* * *

><p>A massive code push, a gridbug attack, and a sweep of a section of the Outlands for any sign of a particularly troublesome group of Sentries devoured most of his time. Half a millicycle ago the rain started falling, the digital equivalent of water washing away the mess they made resurrecting half of a sector. It would be another two hours before the rain let up, and Sam didn't feel like heading back to the portal in this Grid weather.<p>

"Not one for the rain, then," he said as Tron dragged him off the balcony. He grinned at the disapproving look Tron gave the sky and leaned in to lick the water off the program's lips.

Sometime between Tron pushing him down on the bed to suck rainwater out of his mouth and Sam straddling him to draw a long low sound out of his throat, the rain stopped falling. Sam paused at the sudden silence outside of his heavy breathing and Tron's loud thrumming, and then Tron growled and dragged purple-laced fingers down his chest.

"Just..." Sam mumbled a long while later, too blissed to move his arms the way he wanted them to, "it won't hurt..."

"No." Tron pressed his mouth to Sam's neck, to the curve of his jaw, closed teeth on his earlobe.

"You sai-" Sam hissed, writhed under the program, dragged fingertips down Tron's back. Tron shuddered and pressed his forehead to Sam's. It takes him a long time to say something.

"...not yet."

"I can't...port you out without it, you know."

Tron made a noise at the back of his throat and slowly sat up. Sam's hands slid down his sides and settled on his hips, thumbs pressing against the edges of the thin bluish purple nodes low on his front.

"I can't leave the Grid without someone to take my place in my absence," Tron said. He shivered when Sam curved his thumb and pressed it against the circuit. "Don't distract me, Sam."

"Hypocrite," Sam muttered.

Tron smiled, bent down, and kissed him. Sam stroked the curve of his hipbone and then lifted his hand to bury his fingers in the program's damp hair. Time slipped away as Tron slid up Sam's body to take full control of the kiss, as Sam relearned the shape and slick feel of Tron's mouth.

The first warning pulsed in the air and they reluctantly broke the kiss.

"Fine," Sam said. He stared up at the faint violet glow on the ceiling and then tilted his head to the right to look at the bright star over the cityscape.

"Next time I'm here, I'll have that security monitor."

* * *

><p>Programs that don't have permission to perform certain actions and access resources will often simply be denied, and those that break through leave behind angry imprints, tracks that can be traced back to them. Most programs can't tell, but that's what security monitors and firewalls are for.<p>

Azeri sits back on her lightcycle, helmet retracting from around her head. She stares up at the great citadel that houses the Grid's Library, tracing the sweeping cyan lines with her eyes. She then drops her gaze to the faint red traces around the Library's perimeter.

"Interesting," she says as she dismounts. The lightcycle collapses and she slides the baton into her thigh holster. She hops up onto the sidewalk and follows the circuit-lined walkway to the Library's entrance.

Only one of the Guardians is at the lobby when she enters. The trail abruptly disappears at the entrance and reappears at the edge of the chasm separating the lobby from the library deep inside. She frowns as she peers down at the bottom, glowing faintly with raw code, and then looks up at the long rows of resources.

"Is there something you need?" the attending Guardian asks.

"A log of programs that accessed the library in the last two millicycles would be nice," she says. "You should report unauthorized access to data."

"There wasn't any," the Guardian says as she holds out a data pad. "The only programs accessing the Library are utilities and ones granted permission by the User."

Azeri nods once as she scans the log. The list is short - understandable, since the Grid isn't capable of running complicated processes requiring several programs yet - and the names recognizable. Ixion was the last program to access the Library, and before him Enyo, Shaddox, Io, Nyx, Tron...

Of course the unauthorized access won't show up here. She sighs inwardly and hands the data pad back to the Guardian. The faint trail is unmistakable, though.

"I ask permission to cross the bridge, Guardian," she asks, "for I wish to obtain the resources necessary to my task."

"What do you need?"

"I need a new copy of the list of security and infrastructure risks SamFlynn and Qu0rra want me to monitor." She pauses, but the Guardian makes no move to grant her permission to access the Library. Another inward sigh. "Mine was damaged during the fight in Gamma."

A program did hack at her disk in a way that would've shattered it, but Caix's beam katana blocked the blow just in time. Afterward Azeri almost hugged her disk but managed to refrain from doing so. Thankfully there was no actual damage to it, but it was too close for comfort and it made her a little anxious about turning her back to unfamiliar programs. Not acceptable behavior for security programs, though, so she takes better care to wipe out the threats before they get to her or the others.

"Permission granted," the Guardian says and presses something on her control panel.

Behind her a bridge unfolds and extends across the chasm between the lobby and the library. Azeri watches it closely, and her circuits flare when she spies faint red footprints on the white surface.

"You have point oh three millicycles to get what you need," the Guardian says.

Oddly, the first thing on Azeri's mind as she slowly crosses the bridge is, _Where's the other Guardian? _She makes a show of walking down the nearest aisle and turning right towards the section of the Library holding infrastructure and security resources and data. Her eyes scan the environment as she moves, seeking out the faint but distinct trail. Wrongness hums in the air around her and intensify as her subroutines kick in. There was a definite intrusive presence in the Library, even if she can't find its route through this dizzy maze of shelves and code.

Red flickers at the edge of her periphery and she whips her head around. There's a glowing red mark on the side of a shelf; she tilts her head up and sees another at the very top. She glances around her to see if that Guardian is somehow monitoring her movements, and then quickly, quietly, pulls herself up until she's standing on top of a very long row of shelves among rows of shelves. Now she can see the footprints running down the row and hopping over to the next.

Three things immediately come to mind.

One, this program is extremely athletic and resourceful.

Two, this program was anticipating someone like her.

Three, this program knew what it's doing.

Something like a heady energy cocktail of anticipation and apprehension fill her as she follows the trail. Next to the ambush on Tron and the others during a routine scan of the Grid, this is the most coordinated security breach she's seen. Others might have something to say about that but she's new to the system; anything out of the ordinary is going to intrigue her, pique her interest and-

The trail stops here, in the infrastructure archives of the Library. She peers over the edge and stares at the maddening circle of red footprints under a deactivated disk. She straightens her back and scans the immediate area; there isn't another trail veering off into the maze of shelves, so this disk has to belong to the intruder. She hops down to the ground level and picks up the disk, holds it up and peers at its darkened circuits. She activates it to identify its owner.

Nothing happens. Access denied.

She sighs and hefts the disk, thinking of her next step. Take this back to Alpha, where either Tron or Shaddox can access its data and identify the owner. The only thing keeping her from leaving the Library immediately is the trail - it ends here and unless the intruder took extra care to retrace its steps precisely there should be a second path heading back out of the Library. Why did it leave its disk behind?

Azeri pulls herself back up on top of the shelves and follows the trail back to the bridge. The Guardian doesn't look up as she steps back on the lobby with a deactivated disk in tow and kneels down to bring up the Library's recent history. Luckily most of the programs on the Grid have no reason to use the Library, at least until the system becomes fully functional; it doesn't take long for her to figure out which program left the unauthorized trail. It circles around the other Guardian's panel...and runs alongside the glowing red trail on the bridge as its own action.

This makes no sense. Azeri stares at the Library's history for a second longer, then turns to the present Guardian.

"Where's the other Guardian?"

"Recharging, most likely," the Guardian says. "Did you retrieve what you need?"

Azeri glances down at the disk in hand. "For now. Goodbye, Guardian."

* * *

><p>"What have you been doing with my project?"<p>

Sam almost choked on his mocha latte but recovered admirably in front of Ed. He set his cup down and took a deep breath. "What project?"

Ed rolled his eyes. "I sent everyone a copy of the updated suite last week. You really have nothing to say about it?"

Sam very slowly and very deliberately picked up his coffee and took a sip. He did have a couple things to say about it, mainly how cocky it was and how infatuated it seemed to be with Enyo but that would questions of a different nature. Instead he said, "Do you really need that repair utility? Just seems like a waste of space and memory-"

"Did someone say something about it? It was Tom, wasn't it?"

His train of thought tripped over itself. "What?"

"Never mind." Ed pushed his glasses up his nose and dismissed the question with a gesture. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Why's Ixion so closely linked to the system file manager? Don't think someone searching for a file is inviting security breaches." A thought crossed Sam's mind. "Unless it's also a key logger."

Ed flinched, and then crossed his arms, offended. "Of course not. It's for root kits. Anything else?"

"Get back to you on that. Bit busy answering mail right now."

He grimaced, then sighed heavily and stared down at the floor. "Did you even look at it?"

"Not as much as I want to," he replied. It was partially true; he wanted to compare and use the updated code on Ixion and his team at the Grid, but he did fly in late last night from the East Coast.

"Right, the new investors. Did they buy in?"

"That's why I'm answering email," Sam said with a pointed look at his table. There's a screensaver masking Azeri's updated code and the lack of a window of his stuffed inbox. Langley, he figured, could afford to wait a couple hours for his response.

"What did you pitch to them? That firewall program you've been writing?"

He stopped himself from flinching and giving himself away. There was no way Ed could find out; he kept quiet about it to avoid more of the suspicious questions about his commitment to ENCOM that just won't go away.

"If you must know," Ed said, "I overheard you and Quorra talking about writing one while heading to a meeting with Sales."

He mentally kicked himself. "It's about the attacks on our servers. People really wanna take your suite out for a spin."

Ed didn't look convinced but didn't pry into the gaps in his story. "Hey, I'm not saying anything about your personal projects. Just saying that you seem a bit distracted lately."

"You care?"

"For you? Hell no. The company, on the other hand..." He gestured emptily. "You know how ENCOM feels about scatterbrained CEOs. You figure it out."

Sam sat up and leaned on the desk, minimizing the screensaver and bringing up the shell with unfinished command lines. "That a threat?"

"No, a reminder." He gave Sam a mocking salute and turned to leave.

Sam felt that there was something else lurking underneath Ed's words and blurted out, "What's that supposed to mean?"

The sigh and look Ed sent him didn't reassure of him of the programmer's motive for this conversation. "I mean a lot of people here have long memories and you shouldn't give them reason to throw you out."

"It's been over _seven months_. You can't be serious."

"You're talking to the guy whose dad screwed yours over and created some _really _bad press. I had to get this high up the chain of command the hard way." Ed started sidling out of the room. "Do what you need to do, okay? I don't need to live through another shit storm, and neither do you."

* * *

><p>She bursts into the club to find Enyo and Yssandra talking to a shaken green-lit program. Others huddle in a corner of the establishment, all looking terrified. Frowning she kneels down and presses her fingertips to the floor to pull up the-<p>

"Azeri," Enyo calls out and she immediately stands up. The search program gestures for her to follow her to the other end of the club. Once they're far enough from the others Enyo turns sharply on her heels and says, "I need you to perform beyond your directive."

Her tone is sharp and cold, demanding cooperation. Azeri itches to touch the floor and see who was involved but Enyo beats her to the punch. "You need to mislead and disperse these programs."

"That's not my-"

"We can't afford a system failure. Something that shouldn't happen just happened, and in front of others." Enyo scrubs at her short hair in frustration. "I don't get it. He said he fixed it."

"Why would there be a system failure? What happened?"

Enyo looks up at Azeri and her pupils flash yellow. "You know what happened to Tron."

In a second Azeri pulls up the Grid's long and tumultuous history from her memories. "The rectification. Rinzler."

"Tron overcame the corrupt code near the end of Clu's reign but it didn't disappear. Only Users and sysadmins can add and remove code. Tron said Sam got rid of it...why's he lying? He knows how dangerous it is."

The dots connect so easily afterwards, but it's no less horrifying. "He reverted back to Rinzler."

"No, but the corruption was visible. They kept saying he was brutal when apprehending those troublesome glitches over there," Enyo says, pointing at two very shaken programs standing a little ways from the others. "He left after Yssandra stopped everything. I'm going after him. Reassign them, find Shaddox, and wait for us at Alpha."

The program darts away and slips out of the club, leaving Azeri to scan the wary programs and the anxious Yssandra. She then kneels down and touches fingertips to the floor to see the history of the programs involved.

She wishes she didn't. Watching the telltale blue footprints turn corrosive red, Azeri feels is the overpowering need to shut Tron down and that's the last thing she wants to do.

_One step at a time,_ she reassures herself as she moves towards Yssandra. _SamFlynn can fix this._


	8. Starts With One

**Author's Note:** The most interesting thing about this particular chapter is where in the timeline it takes place. Keep that in mind as you read.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**8: Starts With One**

Tron's first ten minutes in the User world is a little underwhelming. Or maybe it's overwhelming but in ways he didn't expect.

The place he materializes in is a replica of the building that Flynn and Sam always emerge from but it's cluttered, filled with things that are both familiar and strange to him. It's dark, with a little bit of light filtering in from a small window above a tabletop interface and from a tall slender lamp in a corner that's looks out of place compared to the rest of the furniture. It's uncomfortably insistently cold and he reflexively rubs against his forearm, feels strange raised bump on his skin. He can't sense the ever-present pervasive hum of a functioning system, which leaves an odd absence in the back of his head. What he does feel and hear is a muffled rhythmic beat overhead and a loud whirring noise from the towers to his right and from the strange apparatus across the room from him. He's no longer in tune with his immediate surroundings, can't sense as well as see, and it makes him a little anxious about moving from this one location in the middle of the room.

Also his circuits are gone, along with his simulated bodysuit. He tentatively touches his sternum where the circuits should be and then looks down-what is _that_-

Something lands on his head and Tron pulls off a dark shirt. He stares at it for a moment, then catches a pair of jeans with his other hand; he looks over at Sam, who's holding Flynn's leather jacket a little too tightly. Even in the dim light - how can anyone function when they can't see or sense where everything is? - he can see a red flush on Sam's face, can see how wide and bright his eyes are.

"Put those on," Sam says roughly. "Don't want you getting arrested for indecent exposure. Plus it's cold out."

Frowning Tron stares down at himself, then drops the pants and pulls on the shirt. It's not skintight but it hugs his torso and provides a warm barrier against the constant chill. He reaches for the pants and something else hits his head.

"Briefs," Sam explains and his voice sounds worse. "Don't want you chafing."

"Are you all right?" he asks as he slowly pulls them on.

"Uh. Yeah. I'm fine. Why?"

"You don't sound all right."

Sam breathes deeply and looks elsewhere. "I'm more than all right. Just nervous."

Tron's seen Flynn in various states of undress during the cycles they spent building the Grid. He'd just chuck off whatever he's wearing and collapse on the nearest flat surface without hesitation, leaving Tron to either do a quick sweep of the new sectors or wait and study the articles of clothing lying around. He remembers how the shirts and briefs and pants and buttons and zippers work, but watching a User do it and trying to do it himself while in the User world are two completely different things.

Luckily for him Sam spares him the embarrassment by crowding into his space, mouth brushing carelessly against his and murmuring, "Like this," while hands bat his away, pull up the zipper, and snap the small metal studs together. Tron's less interested in the finer details of User clothing; the press and slide of Sam's mouth against his is a more fascinating distraction. The sensation is warm and soft and firm and a bit fuzzy; he doesn't feel it flush warm throughout his body but there's a strange and wonderful immediacy to it that's absent from the Grid. It centers on his mouth, on the way his lips move against Sam's and seek the enthralling living heat.

"Slow down," Sam says but he doesn't pull away. "We can do this later. Got a whole world to show you."

"Isn't this part of it?" Tron tugs on his bottom lip and is rewarded with a hitched breath and a shiver. His lip tastes slightly bittersweet, with none of the electric tang.

"Yeah." Sam lets go of the front of his jeans and slides his hands up. Tron shudders at the heated touch, feels muscles twitch as Sam moves to push him back towards the couch. He's disappointed when Sam doesn't and instead steps back.

"One hour and then it's back to the Grid, remember? That's what you want," he says as he crouches down to fish something out of a bag that Tron can't see. Sam pulls out a pair of shoes and pushes them towards him. "You want, we can do a lot more later, and in a much better place than here."

Tron thinks about it as he pulls them on. Sam had come up with an impressive list of things to do in the User world by the time he finally agreed, and he has no idea how they're accomplishing everything within an hour. Tron couldn't fathom the idea of being absent from the Grid for more than half a centicycle, hence the time limit. Besides, this isn't his world. He's cut off from his environment and can't engage with it, is trapped in this flesh and blood body - he's not a program, he can feel the blood pulsing under his skin, he can _bleed_. He doesn't belong here.

But what he senses, what he feels and hears and smells and touches and tastes, is stronger here than in the Grid. The colors are darker and brighter, the sounds quieter and louder, and some unseen force pulls at him, weighing him down. The world resists him, forces him to see, to hear, to feel, to breathe.

It's alluring.

"Hey."

Tron looks up and catches the jacket Sam throws at him. He looks down at it, rubs the smooth material with circuit-less fingers before slowly pulling it on. It has a subtle yet distinct and familiar smell, but he can't place it.

"C'mon," Sam says. He's leaning against the door now, smiling fondly at him. "Told Q I was gonna be back in twenty. Then, I'm feeding you some In-N-Out."

"And then?" Tron asks as he takes a slow step forward. The ground doesn't hum and he doesn't _sense_ the walls or the furniture or Sam, but he can see and what he sees is Sam pushing himself off the door and coming up to him, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together.

"I figure downtown L.A. is a good place to start," he says as he pulls Tron towards the door. "Santa Monica Pier or Redondo Beach?"

"Is there a difference?"

"...let's do both."

* * *

><p>The next fifty minutes of sixty aren't spent finding out what an In-N-Out is and how to eat it. He doesn't find out what downtown L.A. looks like, what the difference between Santa Monica Pier and Redondo Beach is, or what the Pacific Ocean looks like. Sam said it was like the Sea of Simulation but bigger, more beautiful; then he said he wasn't doing it justice and that Tron has to see it for himself.<p>

He doesn't see it, though.

The next seventy minutes are spent at the apartment unit Sam and Quorra live in, sitting next to the ISO and staring at his former User while the three of them explain _everything_ to Alan-1.

While Sam and Alan-1 step outside to continue the discussion Tron looks down at Marv, who's now sitting at his feet and looking up with overlarge eyes. Quorra is tapping on a darkened data pad on her lap and staring out the sliding glass door at the skyscrapers. He leans down and holds out the back of his hand, watches Marv sniff and then lick it.

"Well," Quorra says nervously. "That, uh, that didn't go according to plan."

Tron extends his fingers and rubs the spot behind Marv's ears. "What do you mean?"

"Sam wasn't sure when he was going to let Alan in on the secret. Flynn didn't tell him and Sam didn't know how to begin explaining the Grid and me. Then he brought you home." A pause. "That didn't come out right."

Marv suddenly leaps to his feet and sprints across the floor to Sam, who steps back inside the apartment alone. He leans against the door and rubs his face, sighing. Tron rises to his feet and calls out his name.

"I'm fine. Alan, on the other hand, needs some time to think about it. He's gonna ream my ass out tomorrow." Sam pushes up the sleeve of his jacket and glances at the band on his wrist. "Shit. Yeah, need to get you back to the Grid. It's been over an hour."

"Oh." Tron looks back at Quorra, then lifts his eyes to the cityscape.

The dark sky glows with the city lights and above the orange halo is space, endless like the Outlands and the Sea of Simulation but infinitely more sublime. A distant pinprick of light moves above the city and he feels compelled to walk to the glass door to see where it goes. He takes a sliding step towards the balcony and then stops.

He starts realizing that his disconnect from his immediate surroundings is only a small part of the deeper shift in his mind. He was always the odd one on the Grid, the one that stood apart from it simply because neither Flynn nor the Grid created him, but he was still defined by his function, his purpose. Here he doesn't feel the need to monitor and protect, doesn't feel the drive to fight for the Users and free systems that ran through his coding.

And yet he doesn't feel lost here. Strange.

"Tron?"

It takes longer than he likes to tear his eyes away from the city. He glances briefly at Quorra, isn't sure how to read the look on her face, and then turns to Sam, who's standing in the foyer with an outstretched hand. Tron walks up to him and takes it, laces their fingers together.

"Next time I'm taking you to In-N-Out," Sam says. "And the beach."

He gives Tron's hand a squeeze and pulls him out into the hallway. As the door swings shut Quorra calls out, "Don't forget Disneyland!"

* * *

><p>The neon sign above the arcade doors is like the too-bright star in the sky above the Grid - follow the light to the gateway separating the User's world and the Grid. It is the most vivid light in the decrepit neighborhood and Tron keeps his eyes on it while Sam finds their way. The night is colder than at any moment in the Grid and Tron is glad for the old leather jacket, for the warmth that is Sam's body. He rests his chin on Sam's shoulder, wraps his arms tighter around him, and wonders when Sam tenses at the touch.<p>

While Sam fishes for the right key to the door Tron stands at the corner of the block and looks around. Most of the buildings here are old, degraded in a way that he knows Sam will never let happen to TRON City. This part of the city echoes of the ruins of colonies in the Outlands, destroyed or abandoned by the runaway ISOs and rebels during the Purge. He shivers at the hazy memories and then frowns; why can't he recall them in perfect detail? The images blur around the edges, bleeding into each other, not fully forming in his mind. Is this inability to remember with perfect clarity worth being concerned over? Why does he even care about reliving these particular memories now?

Rather than dwell on these questions Tron tilts his head back and watches the stars in the sky.

"Finally!" Sam says behind him. "Need to color code these things..."

The arcade door creaks open; Tron gives the half moon one last look, turns around and follows Sam inside.

Sam is staring up at the office above the secret stairway but as soon as Tron pulls the door shut he turns around. The look on his face is all too familiar and Tron drops his eyes to the floor. He sees it every time Sam is about to leave the Grid and it had always hurt knowing that it'll be centicycles before he comes back. But now it's Tron that's leaving, Tron that's going back to his world, and for some reason it hurts even_more_. Now he knows why Sam sounds so desperate when he whispers, "Don't want to go," in between kisses and before he steps into the whirlwind of light.

Tron clenches his hands and swallows reflexively, trying to do something about the near-suffocating tension in his chest. He doesn't look up as Sam approaches, hears a drumming noise in his head that matches every heavy footstep on the floor.

Then Sam is crowding him against the door, pressing burning fingertips against the side of his face. Tron closes his eyes and lets his hands reach out, grab the front of Sam's jacket, and pull him closer. Sam breathes hotly into his mouth, murmurs, "Wish you could stay," and then kisses him.

His mouth is warm. That's what Tron registers first; it's warm and alive and soft and firm, and it moves against his with purpose, coaxing him to part his lips. It's almost like the first time Sam kissed him in a club a long time ago but without the addition of circuits to manipulate or the electric thrill to pulse through his coding. His fingers curl against the jacket as Sam presses his tongue inside; the slick slide is still intoxicating, the bittersweet flavor still heady. He shivers as Sam carefully maps his mouth; he knows how Sam does this, knows how he curls his tongue as he delves deep like he's discovering the shape and feel of it, but here it does feel different. There's a weight and an immediacy that Tron can't remember, an intensity that his senses don't know how to handle.

It's everything. It's the old dusty smell of this aged and fragile version of the arcade building. It's the cold brittle door at his back, creaking in protest as Sam presses him against it. It's the warm and familiar weight of his body, the thumb rubbing along the curve of Tron's face, the mouth breathing wants and wishes against his. It's the bittersweet flavor, the tang of salt as Tron slides away from Sam's mouth to kiss its curving corner. It's the heartbeat he hears in his ear, racing because there's no time, and the voice in his head telling him he has to go.

"I have to go."

Sam sighs. He doesn't say anything, just leans against him, foreheads touching, and Tron automatically presses a reassuring hand on his back, traces curving lines around his shoulder blades and spine. It doesn't have quite the same effect - all Tron feels is the tough fabric of Sam's jacket - but it's soothing nonetheless. He closes his eyes, listens to them breathe, and waits for Sam to say something.

"The Grid needs you," Sam says quietly, reluctantly.

Tron pulls him in until their bodies are flush together, runs his fingertips through the hair on the back of Sam's head. Despite what Sam said about having control over the portal time is still limited and today was simply not their day. Disappointed as he is Tron chooses to say, "Next time, then."

A soft tantalizing brush against his mouth, a slow press before Sam steps back. Tron shivers at the sudden loss of contact and opens his eyes.

"Yeah. Next time," Sam says, and he looks so sad, so frustrated. Tron can't blame him. They agreed that he'd come to the Grid every two days instead of every night like Flynn did but the faulty infrastructure and recent escalating violence in the sectors are robbing them of what time they have.

Tron watches him turn away and walk down the aisle to the machine against the wall. Sam pushes it on its hinge to reveal the staircase but lingers on the first step, hand touching the side of the dark passageway. He adds, so quietly that Tron isn't sure he's supposed to hear it, "Like usual."

It takes a little too long for Tron to breathe again, to push off the door and walk across the arcade to the machine bearing his name, the machine hiding the staircase that leads him back to the Grid and another thirty centicycles of waiting.


	9. Past Mistakes

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Past Mistakes" from _7rainbowprompts_.

So I screwed up the chronological order of things and posted _Weather Girl_ when this chapter was supposed to come right after _Starts With One_. I'll change the order in 2-3 days.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**9: Past Mistakes [Red]**

As far as awkward conversations go this is definitely one of the worst, if not _the_ worst, he's ever had in his life.

"Hey, uh, Alan, look-"

"What were you planning to do? Were you going to do the exact same thing Flynn did? Were you going to hide it and pretend that there's nothing going on in your life that might affect everything you do? Did you ever think that maybe I should know just in case something goes wrong again?"

"I'm not Dad. I'm not losing myself to the Grid like he did. I have you, Q, and ENCOM."

"Yeah. And he had you and the company, and look what happened. He told no one, not even me, so when he disappeared we didn't know what happened or where to look. All we knew was that he was…what was it? Being erratic, distracted, always staying up late at night doing _something_. Then he comes to me, talking about some discovery he made, a _miracle_, only to vanish…. What that did to you, to me, to-"

"It's not the same thing, okay? What are you so afraid of?"

"What do you think? You're my godson. I watched you grow into a rebellious punk who crashed ENCOM events and decided which charities we were donating to. Then after that page…after _that_ night, it was like there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. Like a switch finally flipped in your head. A miracle. You took over the company and brought it back to what ENCOM was supposed to be, what Flynn always wanted it to be. And you're happy now, for the first time in years. I don't want you to lose that. I don't want you to lose it chasing something like Flynn did."

"That's…that's very touching."

"I went home last night and wrote it down. Even proofread it and practiced it in front of the mirror this morning. This is big, Sam. The digitizing ray. The Grid. The programs. Quorra. _Tron_. No wonder Flynn kept calling me that. When was I that young?"

"Depends on when you wrote him."

"'82."

"So he doesn't look _that_ much older-"

"What?"

"Uh, nothing. Got anymore questions about last night, or…"

"What are you planning to do with the Grid? You said-"

"Tron said."

"Tron said Flynn designed it as a platform to test experimental programs and processes, before the ISOs and Clu happened. What are you going to do with it now?"

"Don't know yet. We're still rebuilding and I have to write new code for it before it can run properly."

"So it's a long term project."

"Yeah. Look, I swear I'm not going to get addicted to it like Dad did. I'm not going in there every night like he did, and I got Q with me now. If I…stray or something she'll be there to keep me in line. And now you know so if anything goes wrong…"

"And Tron?"

"What about him?"

"Where does he fit into all this? He's a firewall – one of the first, actually – that…looks like a thirty-two year old version of me, but that's not what I'm asking here. You said he's still a security program. What external threats does the Grid need protecting from? From what you told me it's not connected to a network. I don't think it can even handle dial-up."

"We're working on that."

"I'm just not seeing why you're keeping him around. What exactly is his purpose on the Grid?"

"It's…well, shit."

"Sam."

"Sorry. It's…_fuck_-"

"_Sam_."

"Look, it's…complicated."

"How complicated?"

"Uh, 'we're sleeping together' complicated? ...Alan?"

"Let's go back to the part where you're fixing the Grid but don't know what you're doing with it afterwards."

"Uh, I can keep using it the way Dad did. Port in ENCOM projects and do test runs to see what works and what doesn't. Or I can build a brand new operating system on it. Kick Windows and Steve Jobs' collective asses or something."

"Junior's not going to appreciate that."

"Yeah, but I'm CEO. If it comes to that he'll just have to deal with it. How long until the meeting?"

"Fifteen. And you're not walking in there wearing that."

"What, this? Relax; have a change of clothes in the office. Problem solved. Oh and, uh, you're not telling Roy any of this, are you?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because Dad called him Ram and made him part of…never mind. I'll see you in ten."

"Yeah, I'll see you there…. Christ, I need a drink."

Not even five minutes later Roy knocks on the door and leans in, folders in hand. "You didn't tell him about us, did you?"

"I think the last thing he needs is to know you're ZackAttack. Come on, got a meeting to catch."


	10. Stay Over

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a follow-up to the chapters "Starts With One" and "Past Mistakes".

Rated M _like whoa_. You have been warned.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**10: Stay Over**

The next time Sam doesn't wait. He takes just minutes to skim through the list of updates, problems, and queries Enyo and Shaddox present him, tells them what to do, grabs Tron by the forearm, and drags him away to the portal before he can get in a word about one of the queries Sam marked as "postpone".

"Sam," Tron says, exasperated, following him to the edge of the portal's light. "What is it? Is something-"

As soon as Sam's disk floats out of his hands he grabs Tron and hauls him in, crushing their mouths together. Intent sparks at contact, blazing a smoldering line down his circuits, and Tron moans, fingers curling around Sam's arms to drag him closer. He barely notices the world shift, sensors distorting, lines of code becoming flesh and blood, until he feels the _weight _of the User world bearing down on him. But mostly what he feels is Sam's mouth, hard and soft and wet and hot, claiming every inch of his mouth while hands mold to the curves of his face and yank him even closer. Caught off guard, Tron stumbles over his feet and they almost crash into still-dusty equipment shoved against the wall.

Sam laughs as they untangle themselves but his voice is rough and heavy, loud against the whirring hum of the towers and the apparatus across from the interface. He leans against the table the equipment sits on, braces himself with one hand while the other rests against the side of Tron's face, stroking along his jaw line. His eyes shine but where the inky irises swallow up the light.

Distantly Tron remembers that he was going to tell Sam...something, something about the increased gridbug attacks on the new sectors at the border of the Grid, something about the security breaches and groups of red-orange lit programs trying to sabotage the reconstruction. He tries to bring himself back to the list even though they're no longer on the Grid, saying, "We need to-"

He gets cut off again as Sam leans up and nips at his bottom lip. "No we don't."

His words are a low growl that leaves Tron shivering, a strange contrast to the almost tangible heat curling and twisting in his chest.

"But-"

"Later." Sam scrapes his teeth along his jaw and Tron shivers again, breath stuttering as Sam kisses the side of his neck and licks a long line along taut muscle. The heat in his chest starts moving south as his grip on Sam's arms tighten, settling heavily within uncomfortably tight jeans. There's a buzzing in his head and a thrum under his skin; he feels a little loose, a little tense, a little like he's losing control.

"Told Q I'd be back soon so we can show you the sunrise," Sam murmurs. His nose presses against the pulse while he nips at oversensitive skin and Tron hisses. "But she can wait. The sunrise can wait. Everything can wait."

His voice is getting harsher with every syllable, something that almost always provokes Tron into pushing Sam against the nearest flat surface and pressing fingertips to white circuits. Here though he's not so sure about how things work; he only knows that Sam's constant need to be touched everywhere is a habit from the User world. Maybe it has something to do with how his senses keep snapping with every touch, every press of Sam's chest to his as Sam tilts his head to kiss the underside of his jaw. Maybe it has something to do with how badly Tron wants to let his hands roam all over Sam, see what the difference is between here and back on the Grid, indulge like he used to before maintaining the half-build Grid started taking over their time.

His hesitation must be that obvious to Sam, who pulls away from the side of his neck to lean up and whisper into his ear. "Let me show you."

Sam lets his hand slide down Tron's neck and chest at an excruciatingly slow pace; Tron shakes as it traces the taut planes of his body, clenches his jaw and sucks in air through gritted teeth. The weight of Sam's hand presses cold fire on his senses, taunting and teasing, promising pleasure. The lower it goes the more unbearable it gets, with everything in his body suddenly at attention as Sam's fingers brush along the front of the jeans, and then he curves his hand around the bulge that Tron is just now noticing-

If not for Sam he'd be a heap on the floor. Tron leans heavily against him as he tries to get his feet under him, dimly hears Sam chuckle while something roars in his head. The hands on his waist holding him up only add to the building pressure low in his groin; Tron hisses when Sam purposefully brushes the back of his hand against the front while letting him go.

"Come on," Sam says and the husky drag of his voice doesn't help Tron at all. "Too cramped in here."

He's too winded to ask what Sam's talking about and almost trips over his feet as he lets Sam pull him out of the room and up the stairs. Halfway up Sam pushes him against the cold wall and kisses him, tongue pressing into his mouth and probing deep. Tron widens his stance as far as he can without losing his footing, waiting for Sam to settle against him, but the press of their bodies is all too brief and Sam is pulling him up the stairs again. The growl deep in Tron's throat doesn't go unheard and Sam gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

The arcade is alive with a cacophony of lights and sounds, and, like the first time, Tron stops at the doorway to take it all in. He only has a second to look around before Sam yanks him out onto the floor. He kisses Tron quick, mutters, "Wait here," and then heads off for the doors. Tron shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other while watching Sam lock them and then go to a large metal box mounted on the wall and hidden by several games.

The arcade abruptly goes dark except for the dim glow in the room on the second floor. Tron holds his breath in the ringing silence, then hears Sam curse loudly and flip several switches. The lights turn back on and the chaotic harmony starts up again. One of the machines is belting out an unrecognizable melody; Sam gives it a sour look and kicks it before walking back down the aisle to Tron.

"Well I tried," Sam says, eyes raking over Tron from head to toe. "Really need to fix that soon. Guess we'll just make do with what we got."

In any other situation Tron would be taking his time studying the red blush, the wet and swollen lips, the pupils crowding out the blue rings that sometimes glow brighter than his circuits, the halo of neon light around his head, but something about the look has him flushing hot and his mouth going dry; the pounding in his chest accelerates, urging him towards something he has no idea about. Sam steps closer and Tron struggles to find his voice, slides an unsteady half-step back. "Tried what?"

"Shut off all the fucking noise." Sam presses up against him, mouths his jaw as fingers curl around the collar of the leather jacket; he starts walking Tron backward as they kiss, murmurs, "Don't mind the light show but I could do without Journey or Billy Joel or fucking A-ha in the background."

Tron frowns, not recognizing the names or what the problem is. If anything the beat bouncing off the walls is only adding to the incessant drumming in his ear and the buzzing under his skin. If it's bothering Sam, though... "We could go elsewhere."

"No we're not."

Tron bumps into something and looks behind him at a strangely built table, with a barrier running along the border of a surface perforated with little holes.

"Air hockey." Sam's voice is suddenly in his ear, following its curves. "I'll show you later. We're doing this first."

"Sam-"

He's hushed with a mouth sealing over his, lips and tongue insistent. Tron leans back against the table, hands planted on the smooth surface, while Sam slides in between his legs like he's always meant to be right there. His hands skim over Tron's chest and even with the layer of fabric in between Tron feels every press and slide; unlike circuits the touch is a fast-fading impression like a brilliant spark of energy, making the simulation on his senses more intense and as tantalizing as the anticipation and the shivering ghostly trail it leaves behind.

As Sam's hand trails down lower Tron notices that he's tracing where the circuits would be, fingers pressing down at very specific points from memory. There's no sudden electrifying flare on his sensors, no fire through his circuitry, but he's still impossibly sensitive there; when Sam presses his thumb in on a place right over his right hip where a circuit would be Tron flinches, body jerking forward and knees buckling; his fingers curl over the table's frictionless surface as he tries to stay on his feet. Sam pushes up against him, kisses him while steadying him, and Tron can _hear _the amusement in his smile as he then kisses a line along his jaw and down his neck.

"Easy, easy," Sam says as he brushes his lips over the pulse point. "Take it easy."

He rests his hand around Tron's waist and lifts his head to give Tron a steady, calculating look. Tron has no idea what to make of it, then his breath hitches as Sam slips his fingers in the small gap between shirt and jeans to brush skin. He starts, feels a muscle twitch as Sam slides the flat of his hand under and pushes the shirt up. The rush of cool air on his exposed abdomen shocks his heated nerves and Tron hisses, pushes against the table as Sam continues tracing circuit patterns on his skin. The flat of his hand is rough and padded in places, something Tron had noticed but never really paid attention to until now. There's a drag to his dexterity in comparison the nimbleness that belies his User status on the Grid but here he more than makes up for it with experience, with knowing exactly what he's doing.

And what he's doing, Tron decides, is purposefully not dip his hand even lower. The coiling heat and pressure in his groin hadn't gone away at all but Tron had been so distracted that he didn't really notice until Sam backed him into the table. It's the familiar maddening buildup of static energy but he knows what to do with it on the Grid, how to manipulate it and unleash it and ride the resulting high; here it's all in Sam's mouth and Sam's hands, and Sam either doesn't know how much Tron _needs_ or he's deliberately holding it off. A rumble starts at the back of Tron's throat as he shifts purposefully, angling his hips up as he puts all his weight on his right hand and lifts his left off the table and forward to wrap fingers around the back of Sam's neck and tilt his head up for a kiss. He doesn't find that _need _but Sam's mouth is a welcome distraction from it and Tron presses forward with a slick slide.

Sam chuckles, pulls away after a few seconds; when Tron tries to follow he stops him with two fingers to his mouth, says, "Not going anywhere. Relax."

Something about the way he whispers the words has Tron wary and wondering what he's about to do. He rumbles when Sam nips his bottom lip and worries at it for a shivering second before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the underside of his jaw, and along his neck; Sam pulls down the collar of his shirt to expose part of his sternum and brushes his lips over it, sucks and licks at the skin while Tron throws his head back and moans. His fingers curl against Sam's neck as he feels a hot, callused hand slide along the side of his body under his shirt, following imaginary circuits; the cool air in the arcade is only a temporary respite for the feverish buildup of heat throughout his body and he wonders very briefly why he hasn't shut down yet.

Sam leans back a few inches, fixes him with a dark and hungry look as he sinks to his knees. Tron thinks of the only other time Sam was in this position, back in one of the control towers near the center of the Grid, but has no idea what he's up to. Then Sam slides his hands up along the inside of his legs and Tron shuts his eyes tight, shivers at the sensations and the building pressure; a hand presses against his groin and Tron can't stop the choked-off sound at the back of his throat, snaps his eyes open to stare at the slow grin on Sam's lips.

Tron watches, breath caught in his chest and fingers curling against the table, as Sam pops the studs on the jeans and tugs the zipper down. Pressure – physical pressure - lets up, a short-lived relief, and Tron almost sags against the table. His body still hums with pent-up energy, though, a deep persistent thrumming under his skin. Then he catches sight of…well, Tron's not sure what to make of the strange extension of his body, but the questioning thoughts flee his mind when Sam brushes his mouth over its straining tip through the briefs he insisted that Tron wear under the jeans. His hips jerk forward at the touch and Sam quickly pushes him back against the table; he sits back on a bent knee and looks up, taking the light but loud pressure away. Tron decides that he doesn't like that and pushes against the bruising grip on his hipbones, seeking more of the sensation like the slide of Sam's tongue against his circuits. He growls when Sam doesn't comply.

"Easy there," Sam says instead and his voice is a low purr in Tron's ear.

He hooks his fingers around the top and pulls the fabric down. Tron hisses at the rush of cold air, shivers at the discomfort while his fingertips press hard against the table; he watches, wide-eyed, as Sam licks his bottom lip in momentary hesitance and then swipes his tongue around the flushed tip. His hips jerk forward of their own accord as something roars in his head and tight heat begins to uncoil low in his body. Sam pushes him back up against the table and Tron lets him, unable to trust himself to stay in control.

Sam tilts his head and slides his tongue along its length, watching Tron all the while; it's exactly like the hot slick slide on his circuits, tip of tongue tracing the hypersensitive borders, and Tron bites his bottom lip hard as the pleasure reaches a fever pitch. He's not prepared at all for Sam to wrap his mouth around the length, enclosing it in smooth wet warmth; he gasps sharply, back arching up at the shivering rush spreading outwards through his body. Tron feels the pressure bearing down on him, feels something build within him like a cascade, feels Sam swirl his tongue over and around oversensitive skin, feels fingers bruise while holding him in place. A low, broken keen breaks through his clenched teeth as Sam slides his mouth off with an almost comical _pop_.

"Not gonna last long, are you?" Sam muses. He breathes hotly against the wet length and Tron bites off a moan, breathes heavily as he tries to find his voice.

"I-I don't-"

Sam runs his tongue in an agonizingly slow circle around the tip and Tron hisses, shifts and pushes against the hands still braced against his hips. He looks down to see Sam looking up at him, face flushed and lips swollen red, eyes almost black with deep hunger. Tron wants to reach out to him but he can't make his hands move from the desperate grip on the table behind him; it's the only thing grounding him down now, and he shuts his eyes and drags in air, trying to center himself. When he opens them Sam's leaning back, giving him an unreadable look.

"Hey," he says softly and now his voice is a caress, wrapping around them and creating a little bubble in this large, bright room. "I got you, okay?"

Tron wants to ask what Sam means, wants to know how this flesh and blood body handles the inevitable overload, but all that comes out of his parted lips is a hiss as Sam leans back in and swallows. His tongue - his _tongue_ curves around its length, stroking it, coaxing it - and Tron - along. There's thunder in his ears, the first flashes of lightning behind shut eyes and through wildly firing senses; Tron tilts his head back, shivering and gasping at the relentless stimulation. The heel of his foot skitters an inch or two across the floor but Sam holds him steady against the table, keeps him in place and _here_. But for how long? Tron feels ready to fly.

"Sam," he tries to say but his voice skips, breath hitching once, twice. "_Sam_."

He's falling apart, giving in to the electric curl of release; he drags in air through clenched teeth as his body tenses and his hips jerk forward while Sam swirls his tongue around the hypersensitive tip. Sam's fingers dig bruisingly into his sides but he can barely feel it for the overwhelming _rush _of pent-up heat and pressure, of a high so strong that everything roars white-hot and drowns out the world.

...Tron stares at the play of colors on the ceiling while he tries to make sense of the music now filling up the arcade. He dimly hears Sam spit on the ground, and then flinches, hisses when fingers tuck that part of his body back under the thin layer of fabric and tugs the zipper up. Then he hears Sam rise to his feet, feels him lean forward and press his lips to the side of his neck; Tron closes his eyes and breathes in deep while Sam hums against the pulse point and snaps the metal studs shut.

"Hey," Sam says softly.

Tron doesn't know if he has it in him to reply. He doesn't get to anyway, with Sam mouthing along his jaw and then pressing in a deep kiss. His tongue slips inside, bittersweet with a strange salty tang; Tron finally lets go of the table behind him and lets his shaky hands slide up Sam's jacket and curl around its collar like a lifeline. When Sam draws back Tron follows, teeth closing gently on the swollen bottom lip and worrying on it before moving to the upper lip. He feels too tired to chase the flavor, closes his eyes and leans forward to rest his forehead against Sam's.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Tron just hums. It sounds kinder than the constant whir in the Grid, sounds more like a low warm purr. He imagines that if they were on the Grid he'd be glowing everywhere. His limbs feel heavy and his mind is slowing but it's not a concern, not while Sam is here. He thinks he could drift off into stasis even though he's still on his feet.

"Liked it, didn't you?"

He buries his face into the crook of Sam's neck, breathes in something earthy and salty and alive. And warm, very warm.

"Come on." There's an insistent hand on his elbow, a gentle pressure pulling him away from the table. "Got a better place to crash than here. Got something to show you, too."

"You just did." Tron finds his voice and it's barely there, lost under the layers of noise and music coming from the flashy machines they're walking by.

Sam laughs. "Well, that's just one of the awesome things about this world. There's something else, too."

"You said you were going to show me a sunrise. We're going to meet Quorra and you're showing me a sunrise."

They're at the doors of the arcade. Tron leans against the cold wall while Sam unlocks and opens the doors to let in a weak bluish gray light, shudders and tugs the collar the leather jacket around his neck as a cold breeze sweeps in. Sam walks around the corner to shut off the lights and sounds; the sudden silence following the loud clang sends a shiver down his back. Tron stares at the light, wondering where it's coming from; it can't be one of the lampposts lining the street outside but there's no way the sky itself could change.

"You okay with being gone more than an hour?" Sam asks quietly. Tron hadn't heard him come back around. He looks at the stream of light coming through the open doors, at the expression on Sam's face, at the ground, and closes his eyes, thinks for a moment.

Sam's offering him a choice.

And Tron knows what he's going to say.

"Two hours," he says. "I'll stay over for two hours. Show me the sunrise, Sam."

Sam once told him he had to describe the sun to Quorra; he then said the first thing he showed her after that night a very long time ago was a sunrise. Tron has never seen the sun, had never thought to ask, and now Sam's going to show him it, too.

"Come on."

Sam takes Tron's hand, weaving their fingers together, and leads him outside to the waiting motorcycle.


	11. Dance Dance Revolution

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Dance Dance Revolution" from _7rainbowprompts_.

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><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**11: Dance Dance Revolution [Red]**

They're at an arcade to see what people think of the modernized Vice Squad, a pet project and a title at the forefront of the arcade revival. There's a crowd around the machine but Quorra's not interested in that.

"Come on," she says, tugging Tron away.

"But Sam-"

"We won't be far. He knows where to look."

They weave through the crowd and rows of loud machines, though Tron stops to stare at one with a wheel-less motorcycle as the controller. Eventually they come to an island of two platforms attached to bright interfaces. Quorra feeds them money, gets on a platform, and stomps on a square to scroll through a list on the screen.

"Come on. Let's start with something simple."

Curious, he steps on the other platform. "What do I do?"

"See those arrows? When they reach the top, step on a square. You have to time it right or else you won't get the point."

"So it's a game."

She grins as a quick beat starts and arrows start scrolling up the screen.

"Oh yes."

Sam returns with quarters and fresh popcorn to find a cheering crowd around the DDR machines.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me."


	12. Rainy Monday

**Author's Note: **Enjoy your cavities.

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><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**12: Rainy Monday**

When it rains it starts with a few scattered drops on the ground. A _pitter-patter_. A _tat-tat-tat_. It washes away the grime and wear, rinses the world of buildup and clutter, and leaves it shining, almost new. It is a maintenance utility that has no face or name and it is the only one that can be everywhere at any one time.

When it rains the streets smell like ozone. Programs don hoods or carry umbrellas as they walk along the sidewalk. When one holds her hand out to touch the rain the water glows as it drips off her palm and fingers. Millicycles like these, most programs stay indoors or gather in clubs to drink the rain away. Gridbugs don't manifest or hide in the higher levels of the Outlands lest the water washes them away. The Sea of Simulation glows an eerie greenish blue, its rolling surface rippling with every droplet that falls on it.

When it rains they hide from the Grid. They race across the city to a tall building in a still-abandoned sector and lock themselves in a room overlooking the glowing cityscape. Nobody's looking for them and nobody needs them, so even though it only lasts a few hours they pretend they have all the time in the world.

Tron wakes to the soft _pitter-patter _on the windows and balcony, to Sam walking his fingers along his body towards the circuits on his sternum. He turns his head and watches Sam, rumbles softly while studying the way the cyan glow of the city highlights his face and creates a halo around his head. There is something beautiful and fragile in the way he looks at Tron and smiles before leaning up to press a kiss and touch foreheads.

"Hey," Sam says softly, voice blending in with the rain.

Tron raises his hand and traces the curves of Sam's face with his fingertips. "Hello, Sam."

Sam huffs a laugh. "You always say that."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Dunno." A long, lingering kiss. "Wasn't a question."

He slides his hand along Tron's chest and over the circuits, and Tron can't help the rumbling purr as pleasing warmth flows through his body. His hand slides along the curving line of Sam's neck and around, fingers brushing the short hair at the back, and he pulls Sam back down for another kiss. Lips slide against each other, mouths breathing hotly; the rumbling reaches the back of Tron's throat as Sam catches his bottom lip between his teeth and tugs on it.

When he suddenly pulls away Tron growls. Sam laughs, pushes him back down when Tron tries to follow him. "Not going anywhere. Relax."

Sam sits up and crawls on top of Tron, straddling him; he leans down, brushing his mouth over the blue circuits, and Tron shivers, senses stuttering as intense heat floods the coding underneath simulated skin. He wraps his arms around Sam, fingers mapping and finding circuits by memory, and traces a line down his bared shoulder blade; Sam moans and shudders against him, whispers, "Fuck, why you always gotta-"

Confused, Tron lifts his hand and Sam looks up, eyes wide and dark. Hungry. "Don't stop."

"But-"

"It was rhetorical. Not really complaining about anything."

"But-"

Sam seals his mouth with a languorous kiss, rocks his hips forward and rubs against the circuits near Tron's hips. The air around them thickens, tinged with electricity, while the rumbling becomes louder than the rain.

"Love it when you do that," Sam murmurs against his mouth. He slowly settles down against Tron, licks a line along his bottom lip before slipping into his mouth and mapping it with his tongue. Tron hums contentedly and continues sliding his fingertips along the curve of Sam's back while they trade lazy kisses.

At some point they'll have to emerge to continue building a better Grid, but for now it rains and when it rains they hide in each other's arms and forget the world.


	13. Ambition

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Ambition" from _7rainbowprompts_.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**13: Ambition [Red]**

Sam learns rather quickly that people who spend their lives using Frisbee-shaped Light Discs as weapons have _very _good arms and an uncanny aim.

Take Quorra, for instance.

A few weeks after _Quorra Avis _becomes a citizen of the United States of America, a resident of California, and an employee at ENCOM Sam takes her to Griffith Park. She finds Gene Autry's Museum of the American West weirdly fascinating – "You sure like keeping really old stuff," she says – and adores the L.A. Zoo – except when she loudly asks, "But why do you keep them in cages?" – but he has to coax her through the Observatory's exhibits – "I don't get space," she says somewhat timidly.

He admits that it's probably too soon for someone who's been on Earth for less than a month.

They're at the picnic area and Quorra's asking him about the people on horseback riding a dirt trail bordering it. He's explaining why he's not a fan – it's not his fault the pony at the ENCOM-sponsored carnival he went to when he was six decided she didn't like people that day – when a Frisbee lands at his feet. A group of teenagers at the far end of the field wave for him to throw it back but Quorra grabs the neon pink disk before he can.

He recognizes the look on her face and says, "Wait, Q-"

She flings it and it streaks across the green to deck the nearest teenager, knocking him to the ground. She clasps her hands over her mouth and looks at him, wide-eyed, while the other teenagers gather around their stunned friend.

Someone yells, "Nice aim!"

Sam almost pulls a muscle laughing.

He does manage tell Quorra not to throw Frisbees so enthusiastically from now on since most people are, well, amateurs.

He forgets to tell Tron, however.

They're up at Oxnard, because L.A. beaches are over hyped and overcrowded in the summer. They're also there because Tron and Quorra have a deep fondness for beaches even with the sand, the salt, and the humidity. On these rare days Sam feels more like a parent, watching them-well, watching Quorra jump waves, run up and down the shore, and hunt for seashells. Tron's content to let the seawater lap at his feet, hands tucked into the pockets of the old leather jacket while watching seagulls of pelicans fly overhead.

Then a Frisbee lands at his feet and is almost pulled into the ocean. A group of people several yards up the beach are waving for him to throw it back.

"Oh no," Sam mutters while Tron hefts the neon yellow disk, testing its weight, and then flings it back.

It comes at them so fast they throw themselves out of the way and it ends up decking an unsuspecting kid. Sam groans and covers his face while Quorra, who had snuck up on him at some point, says, "I wish I can throw it that far-"

"No you don't." Then, loudly, "Going home now."


	14. Fool For Love

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Fool For Love" from _7rainbowprompts_.

This chapter is brief because I only wrote a hundred words to answer this prompt.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**14: Fool For Love [Red]**

The gridbug swarm that ravaged a fourth of Theta Sector is the worst Enyo has ever seen. She was stuck with Ixion when the swarm struck and as she can write shortcuts she created one to take him to his team, and then another to meet up with Tron's at the battlefield. And though she's capable of defending herself Ixion kept getting in her way, insisting on protecting her.

"A lot of help you were," she says sourly while the repair program Noor checks his injuries.

He smiles at her like a fool. She rolls her eyes and walks away.


	15. Sensuality

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Sensuality" from _7rainbowprompts_.

**Rated M.**

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**15: Sensuality [Red]**

There's obscene - he's seen obscene, nobody escapes porn on the Internet - and then there's _this_. _This_ is Tron that Sam's straddling, back arching up and head thrown back, moaning and keening helplessly as he clutches at Sam's hip and kneads on the sensitive nerves - _circuits_, hidden until someone touches them - embedded in his skin. _This_ is Sam pinning Tron down on the bed with a splayed hand on his chest, fingertips sliding against the flickering violet circuits, and trying to keep his composure despite the energy pulsing up his arm. _This _is him holding the program's wrist a little too tightly, holding it up to his mouth, and wrapping his tongue around the circuit-lined fingers. They taste like metal - like brand new pennies, like the iron tang of blood - and they hum against the roof of his mouth and under his tongue, hot and slick with spit.

Sam doesn't know what thrills him more - the heady energy pulsing down his throat or the program writhing underneath him. He never sees Tron losing his composure, never sees him be _vulnerable_, and yet Tron let him take over, let Sam crawl on top and push him back down on the bed. And he really is a sight to see, all violet light and disheveled hair and wet mouth breathing out Sam's name. And Sam-well, he wants to lean down and swallow up his name from Tron's mouth, wants to slide against the circuits marking Tron's front, wants to bring the program to orgasm with his mouth and his hands. But he'll wait and enjoy the show, see how far he can push Tron with just the circuits on his fingers.

He'd always wondered about the long blue lines on Tron's thumb and index and middle fingers. He just couldn't ignore their dexterity, their inhuman grace as they manipulated antagonistic programs and the complex circuits under his skin. The first time he merely brushed his mouth over the circuits and Tron looked at him in confusion even as his circuits flashed purple. The second time he sucked Tron's thumb in and held it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, watched the light switch on in the program's eyes. The third time he grabs Tron's hand before it reaches his hip and pulls it up, looks down and waits for a nod before breathing out slow over the index and middle fingers; the circuits flare and tingle against his lips, promising so many things, and then Sam opens his mouth and sucks them in.

Taste doesn't register on the Grid the same way it does on the other side. There's sweet and bitter and the indescribable tang of energy in everything. He tastes it in the cocktails Crystal mixes, the sterile air, the scheduled rain that washes the Grid clean, Tron's circuits, even in his blood when he accidentally cuts himself. He tastes it along the textured pads of the program's fingers, in the glow flooding his mouth with an intoxicating sweet thrum.

Slowly he pulls the fingers out of his mouth, teases with the tip of his tongue and with teeth. Tron shudders, groans, jerks against him; his heels dig into the bed as he rides out a wave of energy. Sam feels it through the hand on his hip and the wrist in his grasp, shuts his eyes and grits his teeth as it rushes through his body and hits him like a freight train. Stars blink in and out of existence as he gathers himself and looks down at Tron, face flushed purple from his circuits.

Sam leans down, bracing himself carefully on the hand still on Tron's chest, and kisses him. His lips are fuzzy and his mouth is numb, and Tron is just brimming with heat and light and barely bridled force. He feels the program rake shaking fingers through his hair and slide his hand down the side of his face. Sam pulls back, breathing hard, and Tron caresses his wet swollen lips, looks at him with searching, pleading eyes. Sam opens his mouth and Tron presses his fingers in, watches as he swallows around them.

He feels rather than hears Tron groan as he swirls his tongue around the digits, stroking circuits that shiver hot-cold down his throat and coil tightly in his chest. The program suddenly thrusts up against him and Sam pushes him back down; fingers flex and curl as Tron keens, tenses up under him. The heated air is thick with ozone, full of static that prickles exposed skin and lungs. Everything's becoming charged, wound tight full of building energy; every move elicits a hiss and Sam grounding down against him, toes curling and arms shaking with too much pressure that's got nowhere to go. He's so close to the edge despite doing nothing more than tastes the circuits on Tron's fingers, so close that he thinks just _listening _to Tron's wanton mewling might undo him. He didn't think it was possible for the program to make those sounds.

He needs to hear them again, he decides, so he sucks on the fingers, drags them halfway out of his mouth slowly, feels the circuits slide against his upper lip. There's a hitched whimper that hits him even harder than whatever metaphors his disoriented mind tries to come up with, and Tron curls his other hand tightly against Sam's hip, twists and pushes up against him as pressure and friction reach an incomprehensible limit. The fingertips in his mouth throb - or he's throbbing, everywhere, and so ready to fall apart - as Tron presses on a node on the inside of Sam's hip, and he rocks his hips forward reflexively; he moans around the static-laced fingers, feels the energy blaze a line down his throat as he wraps his lips around them.

They curl against his tongue, burning circuits flooding his mouth with intoxicating electricity, and Tron falls apart, dragging Sam down with him.


	16. Chemistry of a Car Crash

**Author's Note:** I love stories that use different methods of telling a narrative. A story told in letters, in newspaper clips, in emails, in _tweets_.

Try figuring out what these tweets are talking about. Should be interesting. And fyi - most of these links are fake.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**16: Chemistry of a Car Crash**

**fcukyouup** the perpetual drunkard  
>Did he ever take his helmet off? Where did he come from? Why do I care?<br>1 second ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>YOU WATCHED IT WITHOUT ME? SMH RT [at]SamuraiChic: KEEP HOLDING ONNNNN #rifftrax<br>11 seconds ago

**thepopcornfiend** K. Lang Hartford  
>Okay I just have to say I find motorcycles really hot. #shallow<br>40 seconds ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>[at]jollyjollyrancher RUB IT IN WHY DON'T YOU [at]b00sterg0ld<br>1 minute ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>Photo: spacemanspiffy: He's not a very "social" famous person so I guess it makes sense that they care if he's seen... [<strong>http]:[tumblr].[com][x7v4xf1y0N]**  
>1 minute ago<p>

**ohnotheydidnt** OH NO THEY DIDN'T  
>Footage from 'the Avengers' set leaked online [<strong>http]:[goo].[gl][fb/jkWAR]** #leak #film #avengers  
>2 minutes ago<p>

**fcukyouup** the perpetual drunkard  
>Seriously, not every man wants to bone the woman they live with and vice versa. Also, so what? Oh wait, this is the Internet.<br>2 minutes ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]overloadme [at]b00sterg0ld "YOU DON'T HOLD ONTO SOMEONE LIKE THAT AND NOT BE HAVING SEX TOO" omg dyingggg<br>3 minutes ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]overloadme [at]b00sterg0ld read the comments. comedy GOLD<br>3 minutes ago

**fcukyouup** the perpetual drunkard  
>Is everyone seriously freaking out over Sam Flynn not dating Quorra Avis? They never looked like they were.<br>4 minutes ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>[at]overloadme So he never took the helmet off? Adds to the mystery...<br>4 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>[at]b00sterg0ld Me, too :((( Third time they spotted him with this guy and first time someone took pics. WHO THE HELL IS HE?<br>4 minutes ago

**thepopcornfiend** K. Lang Hartford  
>Finally sent draft to my editor! Nothing like a deep breath after six months of writing.<br>5 minutes ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]b00sterg0ld Sparrow Hawke. Just saying.<br>5 minutes ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]overloadme HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA<br>6 minutes ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>[at]overloadme I thought he was dating that really hot chick he lives with.<br>6 minutes ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>Well I played a mage chick last time... #DA2<br>6 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>[at]jollyjollyrancher WELL?<br>8 minutes ago

**GotPointyTeeth** not that White Rabbit  
>"THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!" "Well, I'd better replace it, then." #deadparrotsketch<br>10 minutes ago

**TFLN** TextsFromLastNight  
>(281): WHERE ARE MY FUCKING EYEBROWS?<br>11 minutes ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>Do I want a sword or do I want to zap everyone with lightning? Also, I need a name. Help? #DA2<br>13 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>[at]jollyjollyrancher RT [at]ohnotheydidnt: TMZ's favorite bachelor CEO seen around town with a mysterious man again [<strong>http]:[goo].[gl][fb][/ftr1L]** #candids  
>14 minutes ago<p>

**LAist** LAist  
>Check out the best places to spot your favorite celebrities: [<strong>http]:[ht].[ly][9tkOn]**  
>14 minutes ago<p>

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]overloadme wat wat wat wat. details woman COME ON. #picsorgtfo #manonmanishot #dealwithit<br>14 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>OMG IS HE GAYYY? HE'S GAY ISN'T HE? FML #SamFlynnwhyyy<br>15 minutes ago

**b00sterg0ld** Katelyn Sparrow  
>For my next trick I'm going to play Hawke as a total douchecanoe. #DA2 #whatthehellhero<br>16 minutes ago

**ohnotheydidnt** OH NO THEY DIDN'T  
>TMZ's favorite bachelor CEO seen around town with a mysterious man again<strong> [<strong>http]:[goo].[gl][fb/ftr1L]**** #candids #samflynn  
>16 minutes ago<p>

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>Photo: That is one fine Flynn. [<strong>http]:[tumblr].[com][x4v2xj5b5p]**  
>17 minutes ago<p>

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>[at]SamuraiChic Omg wasn't that the gayest movie ever? Who needs slash goggles?<br>17 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>Having sex can reduce a fever because of the sweat produced. [<strong>http]:[t].[co][RxfkSv5]** /ewww that's so gross  
>17 minutes ago<p>

**ENCOM** the official ENCOM twitter account  
>Liked what you saw at E3? Keep an eye out as we're rolling out more trailers in the next few months including in-game footage.<br>21 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>[at]fuckyouup omg so jealous! I wish I lived in SoCal :(((<br>23 minutes ago

**jollyjollyrancher** I am Ceiling Cat  
>random - I hate Mondays. they just remind me of how much I miss the SteveDanny bromance  
>24 minutes ago<p>

**fcukyouup** the perpetual drunkard  
>Home for the weekend. Was passed by a Ducati just past the Getty. 1) Need to go there tomorrow. 2) Holy shit was that Sam Flynn?<br>28 minutes ago

**overloadme** Sam Flynn groupie  
>Anna is howling AGAIN.<br>28 minutes ago


	17. Time & Place

**Author's Note:** Fun story behind this one - I wrote this in the bathroom at midnight by hand in my little Moleskine notebook while listening to Florence + The Machine. Mark this as yet another fic I never saw myself writing before yet did because this OTP is so compelling.

**Rated M.**

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**17: Time & Place**

A stroke.

A slide.

A caress around the glowing edge of a circuit. The friction builds, energy crackling under the bodysuit and simulated skin. He bows his head with a shuddering gasp that echoes off the walls of the room. Another flick against the circuit on the left side of his chest coaxes out a muffled moan as he leans back against his seat and pushes against the console with his foot.

He shouldn't be doing this right now-no, of course he shouldn't. This is Security headquarters and someone could walk in on him. How embarrassing would it be to find the Head of Security stroking himself to overload?

Tron doesn't care, not by this point. Besides he knows he's the only one in the building for the next point two five millicycles and the doors have been locked to his signature. This isn't the first time he ignored the pile of data pads compiled by Security and waiting for his analysis in favor of a good number of microcycles to himself. Monitoring the Grid may take up most of his time but during the lull he'd much rather sit back and…let himself go.

He still has three centicycles, after all.

He presses his fingers on the nodes right under his chest, imagining a warm slick tongue sliding over them. He flushes at the thought, circuitry pulsing hot and bright. Tron stares up at the ceiling, eyes unseeing as he brushes the back of his index and middle fingers against the circuits lower on his front. They flare as pleasure streaks through him and his foot almost slides off the console.

His sensors are faltering under the buildup of energy; it hums in his code, thrums through his circuits. He's too close to stop, too gone to care about anything but the need, the drive to finish this.

He lets his other hand trail down his side to the nodes even lower down his body. Even though the reaction is nowhere as intense and blinding as in the User world it still has him biting his lip, has his hips twitching and snapping up, pushing off the seat in search of release. The friction, the stimulation is almost but not enough.

He wants Sam here with him, straddling him on the seat, achingly familiar weight settling against him while those warm lips whisper nothing and everything into his ear, his mouth, along the line of his neck, and through his lines of code. He needs Sam sliding against him and grinding down, sending him into freefall with a rough kiss and a touch of that infinite User energy. Once enough of his sensors and subroutines come back online from the wild pleasurable high he'll reach up and drag his fingers down the undulating curve of Sam's back, feel thin white circuits pulse under his fingertips and heat up in response while those blue eyes turn stormy and that beautiful face flushes with a color so rarely seen on the Grid. He could see those wet red lips, swollen with kisses, parted as Sam breathes light and quick from exertion. Only a few inches separate them and Tron will lean up, seal his mouth and swallow the rough moan as Sam falls apart above him and spill that hot living energy into him and through him.

The image in his head, the almost perfect memories of Sam in those seemingly infinite seconds, the phantom feel of his slick bittersweet mouth against the cluster of circuits on his sternum, against the side of his neck, on his mouth has Tron stroking his circuits almost brutally as he pushes against the seat and throws his head back, a name slipping into the charged air as he overloads.


	18. I'll Hold My Breath

**Author's Note:** Every relationship - romantic, platonic, or otherwise - will have its ups and downs. A _good_ relationship works through and overcomes the darker moments. So this time stamp deals with the limits and boundaries of Sam and Tron's relationship, including matters of consent and trauma/triggers. A bit darker in tone, but one that's meant to flesh out another aspect of their relationship.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**18: I'll Hold My Breath**

In hindsight - make it one hell of a hindsight - he should've stopped as soon as Tron stiffened up against him. It's no excuse, but he was both pleasantly buzzed - Yssandra makes rather intoxicating cocktails - and curious. He always wanted to see how well Tron responded to unexpected stimuli. Sam has no qualms about the element of surprise - it's how he used to live, anyway - and figured that Tron won't, either. He's head of Security, he's used to it.

One elbow to the sternum and a sweeping blow to the back of his knees later, Sam decides that he got it all wrong. Tron may be used to being ambushed by hostile programs and gridbug swarms, but that doesn't mean he'll react differently if Sam surprises him with a strategically placed pulse of power to a circuit on his back.

"It worked out better in my head," Sam groans as Tron crouches next to him.

He's completely winded and hurting all over, can't bring himself to sit up and relieve the spot where the disk dock pushes uncomfortably against his back. Once his brain sorts itself out and his ears stop ringing he looks up at Tron, and his heart staggers, stutters to a stop.

Anger, he understands, but not fear. Not terror. What's going on?

"What-" He lifts his hand but as soon as his fingers touch Tron's face the program flinches and jerks away. Hurt, Sam swallows hard and says, "Tron, what-"

"You don't-of course you don't," Tron says roughly. He's _shaking _and god, did Sam do that?

The program sits down next to him but maintains a carefully precise distance; he doesn't look at him and instead stares at something else in the room. "You don't have to think about it."

"About what? Wondering whether you should return the favor or body slam me into the ground like I'm a glitched Sentry?"

Tron stiffens, clenches his teeth and his hands, and grits out, "Being ambushed by a sysadmin."

_Clu._

"Oh god." Sam covers his face with his hands. "Shit. I didn't mean to-"

"I know. You didn't-you wouldn't have." Tron rubs the instep of his foot, trying to peel off the simulated layers. "You don't have to think about it because you're a User and no one can-no one can rewrite you. Repurpose you. Turn you into something you're not."

"Tron-"

"You can't...not with me, Sam. That's the one thing you can't do with me," Tron says and finally looks at him. The visible distress on his face, the tightness in the line of his mouth and the barrier behind his eyes, is so painful to see, and the only reason why Tron has to relive it is because Sam is a thoughtless idiot.

Humiliation and horror weigh down on his chest, pinning him to the ground and slowly suffocating him. He wants to get away from here, crawl on all fours if he has to or code the floor to swallow him up. But he can't move; he's frozen on the floor, heart beating too loudly and mouth too dry for words. Tron's presence, usually a comforting and oftentimes thrilling thrum under his skin, scorches him and he struggles with the impulse to turn away, to hide and pretend this isn't happening.

"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely. The only indication that Tron hears him is the slight tilt of his head. "I-I didn't-" He stops. Nothing he says can make anything better. "I'm sorry."

Tron doesn't respond, not that Sam expects him to. He waits for Tron to get up and leave, because how do you tolerate being around people who fuck up something so important to you? But Tron's not moving away. He maintains his distance, makes plain with his crossed legs, hunched shoulders, and bowed head that he doesn't want company or contact, but he's still here. Cold comfort for Sam, because he can't gauge the program's mental processes right now; he can't read the blank expression and he doesn't think he has any right to ask.

This isn't how he wants to find the boundaries of their relationship. Does Tron feel repulsed? Frightened? Does he no longer feel comfortable around Sam? What happens now? Will Tron stop trusting him, after everything they've been building together?

The questions run amok in his head, blending into one never-ending litany of regret and paralyzing fear. The overwhelming need to reach out and touch Tron twists tightly in his chest but he can't take having Tron flinch away from him again. What does it say about the both of them, about Tron's mental state? Instead Sam remains sprawled on the floor, clenched hands glued to his side, and watches the silent program while despairing over what happens next.

_I'm sorry,_ he keeps wanting to say. _I'm so sorry._

An hour seems to crawl by before Tron finally stirs, his circuits flickering as he breaks out of his shell and slowly rises to his feet. Sam watches him look around the room, trying and still failing to get a read on him, and then pushes himself up into a sitting position. His back aches and his body throbs from where Tron hit him, but he ignores all of that in favor of waiting for Tron to make the first move.

The program blinks and looks down at him - at his left shoulder - with a slight frown. "You said Quorra didn't come with you tonight."

"Uh...yeah."

Tron turns away, appearing to study something in the distance. "We should go. You've been here too long."

_What, that's it?_ catches itself on the tip of his tongue. _You're just gonna pretend this never happened?_

Maybe they're better off not talking about it. Maybe Tron wants him to leave as quickly as possible. Maybe Sam's just blowing everything out of proportion and this is an honest-to-god mistake people make when they're in relationships. He has no fucking idea what he's supposed to do-

"Sam?"

He looks up at the program's expectant face. "Oh, right."

He rubs his hand on his leg and then braces it on the floor to push himself up, but stops when Tron holds out his. He hesitates, stares at the faint bluish glow around the outstretched hand, and then slowly takes it. Fingers wrap around his hand tightly and Tron hauls him to his feet, leads him out of the room to the lift that'll take them to the hangar near the top of the control tower.

Neither of them say anything until they're standing on the backlit panels and then Sam quietly, tentatively, asks, "You okay?"

Tron doesn't answer. Sam swallows hard, tries to breathe and to ignore the presence next to him, the fingers still wrapped tightly around his hand. But, as the lift draws level with the floor of the hangar, Tron squeezes his hand once, gives him a small smile, and then lets go to head over to the waiting light jet.

Sam breathes.


	19. Sweat Out The Fever

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Sweat Out The Fever" from _7rainbowprompts_.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**19: Sweat Out The Fever [Red]**

The only sign is a cough that begins after he gets up and it grows steadily worse throughout the day. Terrible timing, since today's the second day and he doesn't want to be scanned in tomorrow night with an uncontrollable cough only to be fussed over by repair programs that don't get _why_.

"You okay?" Quorra asks with a mouthful of pancakes at Pipers.

"Yeah," he says around an itchy throat and asks for orange juice.

"Eileen suggests this tea. What's _yuja cha_?"

Sam frowns into his eggs. "No idea. Whatever. It'll go away after I get some sleep."

It doesn't.

Sam wakes up to Marvin licking his face and an obnoxiously cheerful Quorra saying, "You're still in bed?"

He pushes Marvin away, then tries and fails to get up. He feels awful and it's way too hot under the sheets. He kicks them off and relaxes as the sweat cools on his skin, but a few minutes later an unnatural chill sets in and he yanks the sheets back over his head. While Marvin burrows in he rubs a hand over his face and swears.

"Need thermometer."

He manages a sitting position by the time she gets back. A few minutes later he reads the temperature, groans, and slides back down. "One hundred. Fuck."

"Do you need anything?" she asks softly.

"Water. Advil. Tell Alan the flu got me. Get Ixion's update from Ed and…you know, upload it. Tell Tron I…won't make it today."

Sam will probably be gone for a couple days but he doesn't think about that; instead he curls up under the sheets after she leaves and drifts off. Problem is, he keeps waking up to something – Marvin's nose, chills, sweat, thirst, a bone-deep ache, the desire to off himself, footsteps, the door creaking open, a cool hand against his forehead-

"Sam."

He cracks an eye open and it's Tron sitting next to him, looking concerned and beautiful and real and what the hell is he doing here?

"Quorra told me," Tron offers.

At the door she says, "He insisted."

Sam should tell him off for leaving the Grid but the gentle touch is soothing, coaxing him back to sleep.

"How long?" he mumbles, watching Tron shed his jacket.

"A few hours."

"You shouldn't. The Grid-"

"-can watch itself for several centicycles." He kisses Sam on the forehead. "Now rest."

Sam sighs and closes his eyes.


	20. Photograph

**Author's Note:** Written for two prompts people gave me that basically boiled down to "How would Lora react to meeting Tron?"

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**20: Photograph**

_What the hell was I thinking?_

Sam's had, and acted upon, spontaneous bad ideas throughout his life (he likes to think that jumping off ENCOM Tower isn't one of them, despite what everybody thinks), but he usually knows how spontaneous and bad they are. Most times he's well aware of them because he's putting his life on the line, like when he broke into the tower to hack the servers and made his escape by diving from the rooftop.

When his life isn't in immediate danger? He doesn't think things through until it's much too late. For instance, Alan calls to say he has paperwork from tonight's board meeting that he wants Sam to look over. Sam promises to be there in ten minutes, manages to drag Tron away from the antique Space Paranoids game at a local bar - "If you want to destroy Recognizers I'll write the code so you can program them on the Training Grid, now come _on_." - and tells him that he'll be back on the Grid in only twenty minutes while pointing the Ducati towards the 405.

It's when they're in the quiet, upper class neighborhood and he's making a U-turn to park at the curb because there are two cars on the driveway that he realizes that he should probably take Tron home to the Grid first. There are _two_cars on the driveway and he just remembered that Lora was coming home tonight from Boston.

They hadn't told her about the Grid.

Or her long-missing digitizing ray.

Or what happened to his father.

Or Tron.

Especially Tron.

He pulls off his helmet but doesn't get off the motorcycle; he frowns at his faint reflection, wondering if he should call Alan and say he's taking Tron back to the Grid first or risk everything by going up to the door right now. And if Lora's there when Alan answers? A million different opening lines flit through his head but nothing sounds promising, especially once she gets a good look at Tron. All the bluffing and lying in the world won't distract from the fact that one is a decades-younger dead ringer for the other.

The arms around his waist tighten and Tron rests his head on Sam's shoulder. Questions radiate off of him and Sam sighs, leans back against him.

"Kind of hoping Alan's the one answering the door. If Lora does..." He stops momentarily when Tron stiffens. "Well, we'd be screwed."

Not surprisingly, things don't happen the way Sam wants them to happen. After another minute of deliberation he decides to risk it and knocks on the door while Tron hangs back, looking oddly anxious.

Lora doesn't even get a word out. Her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack while Tron very weakly says, "Yori?"

_Oh, fuck._

* * *

><p>There's a dull ache in Tron's chest as he watches the three people talk about him. Well, not him in particular - they seem to be avoiding him completely, in fact - but about the Grid, Flynn, Quorra, the digitizing ray that's responsible for <em>everything<em>. He should probably pay attention to the conversation but he can't take his eyes off of Yori. Lora. Yori's User. Yori. She looks like Yori. Older, grayer, lined where there's wear and tear from the User world, but there's no mistaking the Yori in her. The Lora in his memories of Yori. Graceful, lively, daring, sharp. The ache becomes stronger the longer he watches her with Alan.

No surprise why he felt something stronger than an affinity for Yori when they first crossed each other's path a long, long time ago.

But this is Lora, not Yori. Yori isn't here.

Tron suddenly misses her terribly. He drops his eyes to the floor and forces himself to tune back into the lively conversation.

"...my project? All this time? And both of you continued hiding it from me?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me. I used that digitizer on an orange. I'm well aware of its capabilities. I _built _it. And Flynn 'borrowed' it to scan himself into a computer? Really? That's what he was doing until he disappeared?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice is unnaturally small, and Tron leans in, presses a hand to the small of his back. Sam takes a deep breath and explains in a steadier voice, "Dad set up the digitizer in the basement and hid the stairs so that nobody could find it. He went in almost every night to work on the system, right up until Clu-until he got trapped."

"We were in that arcade trying to find clues to where he went, and he was under our feet the whole time, trapped in his own computer." Yori - _Lora's _voice quavers with disbelief as she leans against the glass dining table. "This is-this is unbelievable. Wow."

"None of us knew," Alan says and Tron hears the eerily familiar steel in his voice. "You never knew what else that digitizer's capable of. It's not your fault."

"God, I know." She presses her fingertips to her right temple, sighs as she gathers herself. "This is a lot to take in." She then looks up at Sam. "So let me get this straight - Quorra originally isn't human. The digitizer made computer code...material. Read her code and converted it. That's incredible. Did you-no, of course you wouldn't. She's human now; we can't do that to her. But just think about it. It converted digital DAN to human DNA. This is mind-blowing."

"She's an ISO - isomorphic algorithm," Sam says. "There's nothing like her code anywhere. Not anymore, anyway."

Tron looks between them, wondering how Sam and Alan would explain him to Lora. He didn't miss her recoiling involuntarily when she saw him and there was no mistaking the revulsion in her eyes when Sam told her who and what he is.

Do humans feel this disgusted when faced with a likeness of themselves or people they know? Flynn had no trouble with Clu wearing his face; in fact he seemed _pleased _with himself, but it was always like Flynn to be unconventional and happy over something gone right. Perhaps he was the odd one out and Lora's reaction is the more typical one.

"Why? What happened to the others?" Lora asks.

"Look, I'll tell you everything, promise, but I have to get Tron back to the Grid. We're a couple minutes past deadline and he doesn't like it when he's out for longer than two hours. Security monitor and all that."

Lora glances at him and then quickly looks away. "I'll just have to grill Alan, then." The teasing tone magnifies the melancholy enveloping Tron. She then becomes more somber as she adds, "I wish you told us earlier, me especially."

"I know, I'm sorry."

Tron shifts uneasily on his feet, wishing he was back on the Grid studying the data Cyrus gathered for him, discussing the city's infrastructure with Enyo and Shaddox, and running his team through one of the several new simulations Sam programmed into the Training Grid. He doesn't want to watch Sam constantly apologize for events he had no control over, and he doesn't want to be near Yori's User. He edges back a half-step and Sam twitches, glances over his shoulder.

Alan sighs and rubs his nose bridge. "Sam?"

Sam turns to Tron, says, "I'll be back in a minute," and follows Alan somewhere deep inside the house.

He's left standing there with Lora, who's folding her arms tightly and looking elsewhere. He senses the immense distance between them and reads all the questions in the constant flicker of her eyes in his direction. He looks down at his feet but still feels their weight on his shoulders and wishes again that he was elsewhere. The floor creaks and he looks up to see her staring at several frames tastefully organized on the wall. Curious, he takes a sliding step to the right to better see the colorful images. One in particular draws his attention, but when the image focuses and he can see what it portrays everything around and inside him shrinks down to the picture of himself and Yori in User clothing, smiling as they stand in front of a massive canyon of a deep reddish hue he's never seen before.

"You look just like him."

Tron looks at her sharply. What's he supposed to say to that?

Lora continues, says, "She looked just like me, didn't she? Probably much younger, though. I'm betting '80, '81, '82."

She walks up to the frames and touches the frame of the one of her and Alan - of Yori and Tron - in front of the canyon. "Took this one in '83. Grand Canyon. First vacation after Flynn became CEO. Looking at you, it's like you walked right out of his photo. You're like a living, breathing time capsule."

He doesn't quite get what she's saying. Instead he focuses on the distance in her voice, the way she seems to drift off in her memories. There isn't anything particularly... haunted in her tone, nothing like the way others talk about their pasts. Jealousy suddenly flares up, hot and sharp, as he thinks about his inability to reminisce like she can.

"What happened to her?"

"What?"

Lora finally turns around and for the fleeting moment all he sees is Yori. Then he blinks and she's gone.

"The look on your face when you called me Yori," she says. Her smile is so knowing and so sad, all Lora. "What happened to her?"

Tron drops his gaze to the glass table and he presses the flat of his hand on the cool surface, watches the glass fog around his fingers. The words of a world-weary Flynn echo in his head. "She died long ago fighting for what was right. I...I wasn't there for her."

He doesn't want to think about it. He never, ever wants to think about it.

"You love her, like Alan and me." It's not a question. "Forgive me, but it's not...easy wrapping my mind around all this. It's... incredible. You're here, _you_ are standing _here _in my house, looking exactly like Alan when he was thirty, thirty-one. A computer program in his compiler's image. If Yori was here, she'd look like me when... I'm sorry. It must be hard for you."

Her hand suddenly appears over his, enveloping it in soft and steady warmth. His breath hitches as something twists tightly in his chest, a raw and painful substitute for what would be an intense pulse of energy through his circuitry back on the Grid. He stares at the fine lines and wrinkles on her hand and the simple gold band on her third finger.

_Wedding ring. _Quorra told him what they were after he saw one on Alan's hand. They were a symbol of commitment between people who loved each other. He wonders if he'd have given one to Yori if such things existed on either system.

"Did you ever ask Sam to bring her back? I should think that's possible..."

Tron tilts his head up to her while the name echoes in his mind.

_Sam._

"Even if I could I wouldn't." His voice sounds like it's coming from far away, low and level and firm. He doesn't sound at all like how he feels. "I...loved her and I miss her, but it's been too long and I've moved on. And even if he could bring her back it wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be the Yori I remember, and I wouldn't be the Tron she remembers."

He doesn't blink once as she searches his face. After a moment that seems to stretch almost as long as the lost cycles after the Reintegration she smiles and squeezes his hand once before stepping back.

Somewhere inside the house a door swings open and voices come down the hall towards them.

"One day you'll have to show me this Grid of yours," Lora says. "Want to see why Flynn never gave back that digitizer."

"Are you sure?" He remembers Sam suggesting Alan come visit the Grid once, and Alan said no, he was too old for it.

"Why not?" she challenges and he is suddenly very strongly reminded of Enyo.

Sam and Alan appear, with Sam tucking several folded sheets of paper into his jacket. He makes a beeline for Tron, touches his arm, and says, "Ready?"

Tron looks back at Lora one more time as they leave the house. She has a strange look on her face that he can't decipher, but she's still smiling.

He decides that he wouldn't mind showing her the Grid sometime in the future.

* * *

><p>She pushes aside the curtains and peers outside, follows her godson and Alan's doppelganger down the walkway towards the Ducati at the curb. Alan shifts behind her, radiating his special brand of anxiety.<p>

"I still can't believe that's your firewall program," she says. "Even harder to believe you used to be that young. And that ass..."

"_Lora_."

"Oh hush, you. There's nothing to be ashamed of. For a straight-laced nerd with giant glasses you had a fine body." She looks over her shoulder and flashes him a mischievous smile. "Even thirty years later."

He relaxes just a bit, which is when she adds, "I still want the whole story, you know."

"I think Sam can tell you more than I can."

She pulls back the curtain another inch, watches Sam lean against that old motorcycle and tug Tron to him. She lets the curtain fall back into place and turns away, not wanting to be an intruder.

"So you noticed."

"Well, they weren't hiding it."

Until tonight she only associated the word "Tron" with a firewall program Alan wrote before there were firewall programs and a franchise Flynn put together that made ENCOM a household name overnight. Two minutes ago she had a conversation with Tron the firewall program-turn-human-with-her-digitizer who's wearing Alan's face. The surreality of it almost makes her wonder if she isn't just dreaming while thousands of feet up in the air in a plane headed home to LAX from Boston.

But no, he's real. She talked to him and he responded in a voice that's distinctly his, felt the heat of his hand under hers, listened to him talk about one of the programs she wrote decades ago with heavy sadness. She saw the way Sam acted and reacted around him, heard a warmth in his voice that she hadn't heard since before Jordan died. Tron's real and here to stay.

A motorcycle rumbles to life and she peers through the curtains again to watch them leave. The questions start resurfacing as she then turns around to Alan and nods towards the kitchen.

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm gonna spend the entire night talking over a bottle of wine and not sleeping?" he asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about. So, why did Sam look at you when mentioning the night we broke into ENCOM?"


	21. Sky Fell Over Me

**Author's Note:** This one started with a fantastically suggestive image in my head but I didn't have a whole lot of time to give it the attention it deserved. Instead I tried to write the time stamp in 500 words or less.

1500 words later...

**Rated M.**

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**21: Sky Fell Over Me**

It's been a long day and Sam wants nothing more than to make _someone _happy. Anything to counter whatever he did to raise hell with the Board, a stubborn journalist from the equally stubborn WSJ, Legal, a faulty server tower, and a CHP officer hiding in plain sight on the 405.

"I must be the only CEO you catch in speed traps," he mutters.

"You're the only one I've seen take a motorbike to work, too," Officer Romero says. "Oh, and the next time I catch you going ninety in bumper-to-bumper traffic I'm taking your license. Have a good night, Mr. Flynn."

After that, Sam decides not to take any chances tinkering with the Grid tonight. As soon as he goes in he drags Tron off to the portal.

"We're supposed to-"

"Not tonight," he says. "You wouldn't like it if bad luck followed me in here."

"Who's bad luck? Should I be concerned-"

Sam turns around and kisses Tron to stop the words. The program follows readily, fingers curling around the front of his jacket to tug him off the sidewalk into the nearest hidden nook in the semi-populated sector. Sam digs his heels in and says, "Not here."

He repeats himself several times during the half hour flight from the city to the portal, and the twenty-minute ride from the arcade to the apartment, but almost gives in when Tron pushes him up against the handrail in the elevator and slides a hand under his shirt. Unfortunately - fortunately - the elevator stops on his floor and Tron reluctantly steps back. His gaze burns into Sam's back down the hall to the door.

Sam flings his jacket onto the counter as he kicks the door shut and follows Tron into the living room. Tron turns to him but he doesn't stop, pushes the program onto the couch and crawls onto his lap.

"What happened?" Tron asks.

"Bad day." He rakes fingers through thick dark hair and tilts Tron's head up to kiss him. "Want something to go right for once."

Tron slides his hand under Sam's shirt and along the curve of his spine, moves as if to turn and press him down on the couch. "Then let me-"

"No."

He leans forward, pins Tron against the couch's back. He brushes his mouth against Tron's, licks at the swell of the program's lips as he rocks his hips forward, and earns a moan. He studies the flush on Tron's face and the hunger in inky pupils while sliding fingertips down his chest. Tron moves against him, seeking friction, and growls when Sam doesn't react.

"_Sam-_"

"Let me," he interrupts. He curls a finger around a belt loop and tugs. "Need to, tonight."

He hopes Tron doesn't bring everything to a stop to press the question of _why_, and almost sighs in relief when Tron kisses him instead. Tron wraps his hand around the curve of Sam's neck and tilts his head to deepen the kiss, mouth moving like he was starved for it. Sam welcomes the distraction, almost loses himself to slick bittersweet heat and the thrum slowly building with each sweeping caress of tongue. Instead he pulls back, puts just enough distance between them to breathe and get his bearings.

"What do you have in mind?" Tron asks softly, voice a low rough purr.

"Something easy." Sam shifts closer, pressing against the rather conspicuous bulge and drawing a hitching sound out of Tron. "Less chance of fucking things up."

He presses the heel of his hand against the hard length and Tron bucks against him, keens and digs fingertips into his back. Sam leans in and licks the salt off the side of Tron's neck, feels his Adam's apple bob and his pulse race. He smiles and moves his hand up to the metal button, rubs his thumb over the smooth surface before snapping it open. He tugs the zipper down and reaches in, lightly drags his fingernails along the straining cock under damp briefs. Tron writhes under him and makes a broken unintelligible sound as Sam pulls it out.

"Just like that," Sam murmurs against Tron's neck and coaxes out another moan with a testing stroke.

It's so easy sliding his hand up and down the length of his cock lightly, teasingly; Tron's so sensitive, a possible side effect of the conversion from code to DNA, and anything rougher will catapult him over the edge or jolt him out of the moment. So Sam takes his time, strokes him with a caressing touch, shivers at the breathless moans and the drag of Tron's hand up the curve of his back. He smears precome on his hand for a slicker grip, leans in and mouths at the exposed line of Tron's neck as he wrings out another keening moan.

"Sam," Tron whispers into the shell of his ear, hot and needy, and it shudders through his body, leaves him flushed and with a pounding heart. "_Sam._"

Sam knows what he wants and strokes him, rubs feather-light circles around the head of his cock and lets Tron thrust upward against the curve of his slick palm. He's more interested in what he sees, though; he watches Tron bite his swollen lip at another stroke, eyes tightly shut and head thrown back. Another, tighter slide, and his back arches off the couch, making Sam pin him back down with a heavy hand on his shoulder. At the touch Tron's eyes open and he stares up at Sam with hungry black eyes.

"Just..."

Words fail him, because there's nothing that needs saying. He leans against Tron's shoulder for leverage, bows his head to suck on those bruised lips while he strokes Tron closer to orgasm. He tastes the urgency on Tron's lips, feels it when Tron pushes against his hand and bucks up with his hips, and it exhilarates him, kick-starts the drumming in the back of his head. _That's it,_ he thinks as he strokes Tron again and feels the rumbling moan travel from Tron's throat to his. _Just like that. Come on..._

Tron starts unraveling under him, his thrusts becoming erratic and his mouth reckless and painful. Sam briefly considers drawing things out, but that's not the point, not why they're here like this; what he wants is to see Tron come undone by his hand and so he pulls away from Tron's mouth, watches intently as he slides his hand along the hot, pulsing length and brings Tron that much closer. Tron returns his gaze for two rapid heartbeats, and then closes his eyes and shudders through a wave of pleasure, gasps out his name.

"Right here," Sam murmurs and then drags Tron over the edge.

He traps the hoarse cry with his lips, holds Tron down on the couch as he comes. Sam waits until Tron slowly sinks back down, hand sliding down Sam's back and mouth moving languidly against his, and removes his sticky hand. Tron hisses as Sam carefully tucks him back in, but is soothed with a slow and easy kiss. Sam thinks he can hear the program's heart beating, or maybe it's his, pounding blood into his head.

After a moment Tron opens his eyes. His pupils are still huge but Sam can see the gray rings; they seem to follow him as he sits back on Tron's lap and studies the mess they made.

"What about you?" Tron finally asks. He slides his hand onto Sam's leg and rubs his thumb along the inseam. "Should I-"

"I'm fine." He doesn't sound like it, his voice sandpaper rough and stuttering through the second word like white noise, but he feels like it. He might be somewhat breathless and shaky, but as long as Tron is this blissed out and pleased he's fine. He leans forward and presses his forehead to Tron's shoulder, tilts his head to the crook of his neck and breathes in salt and sex. "Very fine."

One day he's going to ask how Tron managed to carry over that pleasant purr from the Grid to his apartment; for now all he wants to do is sit here and soak in the one good thing that went right today. Except his hand is going from sticky to crusted over, and Tron needs a new shirt. And a towel, and maybe a shower.

"So what happened?" Tron asks just as he tries to slide off Tron's lap and tumble onto the couch next to him.

"You really want to know?"

The thumb rubbing along the inseam of his jeans is incredibly distracting, he finds. It also anchors him down to the languorous moments after, when all the worries and care of their worlds fade away so that it's just them.

Tron presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, murmurs, "Only if you want to. Do you?"

Yes.

"Wanna know why I was late? So this server tower..."


	22. Dragon Tattoo

**Author's Note:** For the prompt "Dragon Tattoo" from _7rainbowprompts_.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**22: Dragon Tattoo [Red]**

It begins with a scuffle at a club he's at across the city.

Two programs, high on coarsely filtered energy, are arguing about something or another; he tries not to listen in, although he bristles at the way one of them spits out the word "User." The look Yssandra gives him as she pours a cocktail into a glass tells him to stay out of it.

The argument becomes heated, though, and Tron shifts his sensors to focus on them, puts himself on the alert. Others in the club have started to notice and the nearest ones are sliding away from the bristling words and tense stances.

Once the green-lit program throws a punch he intervenes, pulling his disk out and apart to block first the aggressor's disk and then the defender's. Not surprisingly his presence doesn't hold them back and they try to get around him; he elbows the yellow-lit program in the chest, knocking him down, and slams his arm across the other program's neck.

"I'd stay down if I were you," he says and calls up the nearest members of his team for assistance.

He senses the green-lit program climbing to his feet, Light Disc in hand and too drunk to know what he's doing, and slams him against the bar. Yssandra backs away while he rips the program's disk out of his hand and tosses it aside, then leans in and growls, "I said _stay down_."

"Tron," the Siren says sharply, cutting through the loud whirring in his aural sensors.

Then he realizes the hand pressed at the base of the program's neck is throbbing red-orange. He abruptly lets go and calming blue washes over the circuits while the whirring softens to a rumble. He holds his hand up and then looks at the other; they're both blue but the fiery color was unmistakable.

And the program now sitting against the bar at his feet is looking at him in terror. So is the one he was fighting, as well as the ten other programs in the club.

The whirring starts again and everyone takes another step back. Tron doesn't notice; he's out the door and gone before his team arrives.

Point six millicycles later he hears Enyo approach but doesn't turn around; his eyes remain fixed on TRON City while the program crouches down next to him.

"Azeri told them it's a mistake Sam will fix when he returns."

Tron nods.

"So what was that?" Enyo asks. He senses her prodding him, though the Outlands' wild code dampens her touch.

"I…" He stares at the circuits on the back of his hands again. They glow Security blue as he flexes his fingers. "I haven't had a chance to recharge since the gridbug attack on Rho Sector and the bombing at Delta."

"That was over two centicycles ago."

"We're having trouble tracing the source of the attacks."

She's not satisfied with the answer and neither is he. Why did that happen? What set it off? Why now and not then? At the same time he doesn't want to look into it, doesn't want to know why his circuits turned red and a directive stuttered out, _Finish the game_, deep in his code as he shoved the program against the counter. He shudders at the memories.

They sit quietly on the cliff's edge, watching the Grid. Then Enyo stands up and looks down at him.

"You should probably recharge soon. The last thing we need to do is remind them of what you used to be."

Tron leaves long after Enyo does, wondering if it'll happen again.


	23. Midnight In The City

**Author's Note:** This is just a placeholder A/N. The full notes are at the end of this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**23: Midnight In The City**

"What was I thinking?" Sam mutters.

Quorra hums the equivalent of "I don't know" as she flicks a page on her Kindle. He looks over his shoulder at her lying stretched out on the couch, feet propped up on the armrest, and Marvin curled up next to her, dozing. He sighs and turns back to the little lacquered box on the floor in front of his face. He slides his hand across the floor, flips the lid open, stares at the contents snuggled in velvet for all of two seconds, snaps it shut, and buries his face in his arms.

The sheer sentimentality of the box, what's inside it, and what he thinks he wants to do with it is killing him. It grips his chest and twists it so tightly that he still wonders how he managed to breathe in between walking into that store in the Jewelry District and flopping on the floor of the living room with the box forty-five minutes later. It was on a whim, a signature reckless decision made on the spur of the moment, and even now he can feel the folded receipt burning a hole in his jeans.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, reaches up next to his head to grab the box, and holds it up in the afternoon light. "Think I should return it?"

She hums the same answer but also says, "It's pretty sentimental, especially for you."

He can't read her tone, can't tell if she approves of it or if she thinks he hit his head on his nightstand a few too many times rolling out of bed. He turns the box over in his hands and flips the lid up a few centimeters to study the silvery glint inside. The pressure in his chest multiplies tenfold and he takes a shuddering breath, snaps it shut and drops his hand to the ground.

"I don't do sentimental," he says. "I don't even..."

The half-formed thoughts ball up into a lump at the back of his throat. How does he explain it to her? He doesn't do sentimental. He doesn't do commitment. This was never a part of the drifting and lonely future he saw for himself. And yet he's living in a future full of purpose, clutching a symbol of commitment and wondering what Tron will say about it. How does he explain something he doesn't think twice about to someone who has no idea what it is?

He'll return it first thing Monday morning, drop it off with a quick and easy lie about it being too soon, and get the hell out. He'll bury his nose in the company business and programming, and pretend he didn't try to do the equivalent of getting hitched in Las Vegas. He probably shouldn't have talked to Quorra about this as a way to organize his thoughts; now she'll never stop bringing it up. What if she tries to bring it up in front of Alan? Or, god forbid, _Lora_-

"Uptown Girl" starts blasting from somewhere above his head and to the right; Quorra wakes Marvin and sends him sliding off the couch as she quickly sits up and grabs her phone. The ringtone abruptly cuts off and she studies the lit screen before tapping out a reply. Not five seconds later her phone starts singing again.

Sam sighs and covers his eyes with his forearm while Marvin pads over to his side and licks his chin. He should stop moping and get off the floor. There are more productive ways to deal with regretting really dumb decisions than imitating rom-coms.

"So Eileen and the others are going to Dave & Busters right now and she's inviting me," Quorra says. "She wants to know if you're up for it."

"They just want me to foot the bill." He sits up and scrubs the back of his head. "Don't they have better things to do than to hang out with their boss at a Chuck E. Cheese's for adults?"

"They think your coding magic will rub off on them the more they hang around you," she replies like she's repeating a teleprompter. "So, yes or no?"

He thinks about it for a second. He has nothing penciled in for Saturday night and he needs something to take his mind off the object clutched tightly in his hand. He glances down at it and then shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

In his room he sets the receipt and box down on his nightstand and grabs his jacket off his bed. He stares down at the lacquered surface as he pulls it on, wondering. Return it on Monday or sit on it for a little longer? Why is he even considering the latter option? This isn't something he does. This box, its contents, and what they mean are not a part of his life. And it all means nothing to Tron anyway.

His face and his intentions must be that easy to read, judging by the way Quorra studies him as they stand in the elevator behind a family of five. Between the first floor and the garage level she quietly says:

"He might like it."

* * *

><p>True to form Sam forgets about the box on his nightstand for the next six days. Or, he denies the reason for its existence in his life so desperately that even though he sets his phone down next to it every night and occasionally send it flying off the nightstand in the morning while trying to shut off his alarm he doesn't recall it actually <em>being <em>there. Might be the camouflage; the glossy deep brown-black material just disappears on the glass top of his IKEA furniture. Or he's just incredibly lazy, and overwhelmed by consecutive meetings with the board to discuss lawsuits from Apple and Samsung.

In short, he doesn't return it.

Friday night he brings Tron out of the Grid. Knowing how stressful the Grid has been lately, with the city plagued by gridbug swarms and assaults by rogue programs, he decides to take Tron to Dave & Busters instead of Redondo. Quorra meets them there, and proves to be the only one able to keep up with Tron as he sets the high score on over two-thirds of the games.

"Maybe we should go home," Sam says an hour later, tossing his contribution to the massive pile of win tickets in the middle of the table. "Think the others are getting pissed off that we keep winning."

"They're not good sports, then," Tron says. He still looks puzzled over the concept of the tickets and watches Quorra gleefully attempt to organize them with no small amount of confusion.

"They're also here to have fun, not get their asses handed to them."

Quorra rolls her eyes. "You sound like you're having fun."

He rolls a lukewarm fry between his fingers and mumbles something like, "I have something else in mind."

He hopes the noise and lights of the place make his words unintelligible and, sure enough, Quorra ignores him in favor of gloating over their haul. Then something touches the inside of his lower right leg and slides up; Sam involuntarily squishes the fry as he jerks his head up to Tron. The program's is almost unreadable, except for the slight curve of his mouth and the weight of his darkened gaze.

"I need to be back in an hour," Tron says quietly. He's almost drowned out by the chatter and music soaking up the atmosphere but Sam can still hear the low rumbling purr in his voice drifting across the short space to curl around him.

"Yeah," Sam agrees hoarsely. "Q, uh, don't come by for an hour."

She rolls her eyes and gathers up the tickets. "I'll be at Eileen's."

It's late enough at night that the freeways are clear, allowing Sam to hit ninety where he knows the CHP won't be lurking in the dark, clocking passing cars. Tron presses up against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, and radiates heat as they pass through the cold mountainous region. It's not long before they reach the edge of downtown and Sam takes them off the freeway, weaves around cars full of club hoppers until they reach the relative quiet of the city block his apartment complex sits on.

"She goes to Eileen's a lot," Tron says conversationally while they stand in the elevator next to a couple wrapped in a cloud of cigarettes and alcohol.

"Q talked about bringing in someone from the outside before. Eileen is great, one of our best new hires, but we haven't even told Roy. And the fewer people who know about you, her, Lora's project, and the Grid, the better."

"I don't know. Flynn used his experiments on the Grid for this world, didn't he?"

"Pretty sure even Dad had a reason for not telling anyone," Sam points out. He's not sure where they're going with this sudden conversation, and it's especially hard to tell when Tron won't stop sliding his hand up and down his back, fingers dragging along the spine and trailing heat. "It's too risky. They quit on the laser 'cause they didn't see much point in porting an orange in and out of a computer network, but I can think of a million things people could do if they found out what the laser's capable of and they're not pretty."

"So you want to hide it."

"Only from people I can't trust. This is really shitty small talk, you know that?"

"We're not the only ones in the elevator," Tron says as the elevator slows to a stop at their floor.

The couple gives them odd looks as Sam drags Tron out and down the hall. He does hear the woman slowly say, "Isn't that the CEO of-"

He doesn't stop walking until he unlocks the door and pushes Tron inside. Marvin yips and climbs all over their feet as he shuts and locks it, begging for attention. Before he can distract Marvin for the few minutes it takes to get to his room Tron shoves him back against the door and kisses him. Sam reacts reflexively, instinctively, fingers curling around the front of Tron's shirt and tugging him even closer, tongue pressing into his bittersweet mouth. Tron slides his hand down Sam's side, hooks a finger around the belt loop to drag his hips forward.

"Right here?" Sam breathes out when Tron tilts his head to lick the curve of his jaw.

The answering rumble sinks under his skin, thrums through his racing heart. Tron shifts closer, pushing a knee between his while sucking out a bruise on his neck. Sam shudders, bites his bottom lip hard and groans when Tron palms him through his jeans.

"Trying to remember," Tron says thickly. The intermittent tremor running through his body is the only clue that he's slowly losing control. "Missed you."

It's a rare thing for Tron to say, and Sam wonders what happened on the Grid in the last three days for him to act like this. He wonders until Tron nips at his earlobe and growls, "Your room. Now."

His mind stops wondering after that.

* * *

><p>One of the problems with dating people who work security is that they don't miss much. It's their job to be on the alert for security threats and breaches, so they oftentimes spot things other people glance over even when they don't mean to.<p>

Like a lacquered box on a nightstand.

Sam freezes at the bathroom doorway, his mouth dry and his heart hammering a hole out of his chest. There's no mistaking what Tron's holding up in his long fingers, and where the hell was it? Didn't he return it-he didn't, was too busy juggling departments and the upcoming launch of ENCOM's addition to the booming tablet market to even remember the near panic attack he had over buying something so stupid at the Jewelry District six days ago. Should he lock himself inside the bathroom and wait a reasonable amount of time until Tron sets it down in favor of heading back to the arcade, or should he march up, take it from him, and say that it's nothing interesting and also they should leave?

The floor creaks when he rocks back on his heels and Tron looks up from his seat in the middle of the bed. Sam expects mild curiosity, a passing interest that'll go just as quickly as it came, but no, what he sees is a question. And then he realizes that the box is _open_and Tron was staring at its contents.

Well, shit.

"Uh..." he says, and then awkwardly clears his throat. The lump that wasn't there a millisecond ago stays lodged in his throat and he's suddenly leaning on the door frame like it's a lifeline. "That-supposed to return them-you weren't supposed to see that."

Something must be wrong with him if he almost sighs in relief when all Tron does is furrow his eyebrows and ask, "Why?" He needs to stop dropping by whenever Quorra streams a random movie from Netflix, because he can imagine at least ten different high unrealistic and painfully clichéd responses to his stuttering statement.

He decides to start with something safe. "You know what those are?"

Tron frowns as he slides his finger along the curve of one. He then pulls it out and holds it up to the moody lamplight to inspect it. It glints in the light in a way that makes it very hard for Sam to pretend it's not out in the open and in Tron's hand.

"Lora wears a gold one."

_What?_

"User...traditions are unusual," Tron says slowly, "and strange, the way you think about the things we do on the Grid. But I'm not oblivious, Sam. I know what these are and what they mean."

"Really?" Sam blurts out. His voice scrapes along his throat, unwilling to come out. He takes a sliding step towards the unmade bed but not too close; his hand clings to the door frame, trying to hold him back from the unknown.

"Quorra told me," Tron says as he turns the silvery white ring over, appearing to study the play of light on its surface. "I saw the one on Alan-1's hand and asked her if it meant anything." He looks up at Sam. "You bought them."

There are so many unspoken things hiding between the lines of the otherwise pointless statement. Their relationship is secondary to their working partnership, though they're woven together so tightly that nobody can really distinguish between them, and everything about it worked, is working, will probably continue working. The chances that something might happen - a violent split, a mutual fading of interest, a pull from this side of the Grid that Sam can't ignore, an irreversible error - are so high, but here they still are, making this work despite everything they are and aren't.

And then Sam goes and buys something like a pair of platinum rings on a whim. A stupid, stupid whim, because _he_ bought a _ring_ for a _program_, someone who won't have any use for extraneous objects with arbitrarily assigned meanings on the Grid. Except he doesn't know what to do about the expression on Tron's face as he resumes studying the object delicately held between his fingertips. There's curiosity in his gray eyes, confusion in the furrow of his eyebrows, and a question on the swell of his lips. Then he lifts his head and Sam sees something else that takes his breath away.

"Do you mean it?" Tron asks quietly.

_Yes._

There's no other possible answer because Sam never considered anything else. Tron has always been a part of his life, by proxy and as himself, so this is more a formality than an awkwardly grandiose declaration. But he can't make his mouth form that one-syllable word; it's trapped in his throat like so many others and he feels like he's suffocating.

The silence is too long, too awkward, too full of tension, and he forces himself to speak. "Should I return them?"

Tron rolls the ring between his thumb and index finger, looking thoughtful and maybe a little reluctant to put it back in the ring box. His eyes are on Sam, though, and they're stormy, watchful. Sam can't hold it for long and drops his gaze instead to the bruise high on Tron's neck. He tastes salt and decides to stare down at his feet.

"I'm not...really the sentimental type," he says when Tron remains silent, "besides the, uh, stuff on the bookshelves and those posters in the living room and a lot of things I did when I was younger and stupider, but these...they're something else."

The words are finally bubbling up and tumbling out, but they all sound misplaced and wrong and he can't stop. "And it's not really sentiment. It's only been a few months-for me, not you-but there's never been anybody else. I already know there won't be anybody else. I, uh, never thought it'll ever happen, this whole..." He bites his lip, fights the urge to pace, to wander off to the farthest corner of the room. "I didn't think I'll ever have it, but we're still here and...guess that's why I went and bought them."

He sighs and rubs his face with his hand. "I don't want them to be some necessary thing. We don't know how long...if it's asking too much, then..." _Tell me and I'll return them, pretend this never happened._

He doesn't know if the sudden heat in his throat and his chest is from the nonstop embarrassment and confusion, or the potential for disappointment. He doesn't know which one he prefers. How do other people do this, knowing there's a fifty percent chance they'd be rejected?

"Do you want to return them?"

He looks up. Tron is watching him with the infinite patience that resembles Alan's, ring still held between his thumb and index finger. There's no judgment, no out and out hope or the beginnings of disappointment. It's just a steady calm and no pressure, no expectations, nothing that still hounds Sam up and down the floors of ENCOM.

"What about you?" he asks carefully, straining to keep his voice from breaking. "What do you want to do with them?"

Tron bows his head, breaking eye contact. He actually looks guilty, pressing his mouth a thin line as he rubs his knee.

"I'm not even supposed to want this," he says, "but I do. I won't lie about it. But..." He picks up the open box and stares at the ring still snuggled inside. "This is asking so much from you."

There are just as many unsaid things in that pause that Tron will probably never say. But what is said hurts - not because he's trying to edge away from this but because he's still willing to step back if the world carries Sam away the same way it kept pulling Flynn from the then heavily User-dependent Grid. This might be the most Tron ever said about what he wants from Sam.

"I bought them, didn't I?" Sam blurts out, and even though it's not a funny statement Tron still laughs.

"Yes, you did," he agrees and then looks up to lock eyes with Sam. "So, what do you want to do?"

He holds out the box, the velvet interior facing Sam so that he can see the other ring. Something about the gesture, the image, the moment stops his heart, pulls the air out of his lungs and makes the ground roil underfoot. For all Sam thought about his life, for all that he said, he's still not prepared for the weight of the otherwise simple gesture of offering a ring. Does Tron even know what he's doing, what he's asking?

He wouldn't, because he doesn't need to.

The world shifts, a surreal shudder that breaks the suffocating pressure in his chest and in his head. Sam feels himself sway forward, one step at a time, until his knees hit the unmade bed; he crawls up on it, kicks aside the twisted sheets, and sits down in front of Tron. Without a word Tron holds the box out to him and he slides a finger over the ring, realizes that he had never touched them until now. It's cool to the touch and incredibly smooth, and he wonders how it'll feel on his finger.

Tron makes a small noise and leans forward. "What do we do with them, Sam?"

No grand gestures, Sam thinks. Nothing outrageous or staged or made for Kay Jewelers ads. With that in mind he pulls the ring out and holds it up to the light. Whose ring is this one? He'd test it out, but the idea of a ring encasing that particular finger unnerves him. He almost bolted when the person standing on the other side of the row of glass cases suggested he try the ring on for size.

"Well, what most Users do," he starts, and then stops when Tron closes the few centimeters to touch foreheads. He always wondered what this gesture means to other people, because for someone like him who needs that touch, that presence, it oftentimes means everything. He takes a moment to collect himself, and then his nerves scatter again when Tron tilts his head and brushes his mouth against the corner of Sam's.

"Go on," Tron rumbles softly.

"They...well, it depends on the person. Sometimes..." Silver flashes as Tron moves his left hand into view, fingertips lightly stroking the back of Sam's hand. A lump forms in his throat as he stares at the ring on Tron's left hand; the program is one hell of an observer, figuring out which finger it belongs on based on what he saw of Alan and Lora. "Sometimes they put it on themselves. Other times, the other person does it...for them."

Which is when Tron takes the ring out of Sam's grasp, tugs his left hand forward, and slides it on his ring finger. As with all things Tron does it quickly and quietly and with an efficiency that Sam sometimes envies, but he swears he felt a tremor in Tron's grasp when he took hold of his hand. His touch lingers, the pad of his finger pressing down on the ring, and then he lets go, leaving Sam to stare at the platinum band.

Is he supposed to feel different? Is the world supposed to explode in fireworks? He feels a little overwhelmed and slightly nauseous but that's about it. No nerves, no nervous laughter, no tears, no desire to drink all the alcohol in the fridge, nothing in reaction to the platinum ring on his hand.

It's just a ring on his finger and the world didn't bust out a pop song and he doesn't feel different. Except. Except...

"Oh my god," he says hoarsely, and then it hits him with hurricane force. He shuts his eyes tightly and shudders at the chill traveling up his spine, clenches his hands tightly and feels the ring press against his palm and fingers. "Fuck."

It's there and it's real and it's on his hand and what's he supposed to do and why aren't there any how-to manuals or Idiot's Guide for these kinds of things? He's pretty sure this isn't how one reacts to the equivalent of an engagement, but-

Warm firm hands curve around his face and he feels the ring press against his cheekbone. Hushed laughter and a kiss, and the touch pulls him out of the air, brings him back down to the here and now. He makes a low pleading noise as he leans into the kiss, grips the front of Tron's shirt with trembling hands and tugs him forward. The world tilts as Tron presses him down on the unmade bed and Sam curls his legs around Tron's waist, moves a hand up to rake fingers through the program's hair.

He feels the weight of the ring on his finger, light and heavy, warm and cool. It slides against the fingers on either side as he slides his other hand around to Tron's back. Then Tron presses his left hand on Sam's hip and slides under his shirt, and the ring's smoothness makes him twitch. The strange presence keeps interrupting him, makes the signals fire all wrong in his head.

Tron pulls back to look at him curiously and Sam realizes that at some point he stopped responding. He should say something but his mind draws a blank; he must be incredibly easy to read right now, though, because Tron just smiles and leans down to press a lazy kiss to the rapid pulse on his neck.

"Let it sink in," he says quietly, in that low rough voice that always makes Sam shiver.

"You got over it pretty quick," he manages to say.

"That's because this is new to you. I-"

"You like it. A lot." He shouldn't be surprised, considering that a certain someone kept a _pager _by his bed for twenty years. "Yeah, I'm...still getting the hang of-" Tron kisses him, licks inside his mouth and caresses his tongue, and all the while he hums, looks down at Sam with such bright gray-blue eyes. "...just letting it sink in. You. You are way too pleased."

Tron hums in agreement and starts mouthing at his neck, following the long line down to his collarbone. Sam moans, arches his neck to expose more skin, and Tron takes it all in with teeth and tongue. The need starts building again as Tron moves against him but there's nothing urgent and tumultuous about it. It's warm and alive and it wraps around him, thrums through his heart like a never-ending promise.

Time fades. Forever suddenly feels real and tangible, something that's finally within reach. This is their life and nothing can take it away, not the twin pulls of ENCOM and the-

"Grid," Sam says and Tron freezes. "You...it's been over an hour. You're late."

When Tron doesn't reply he opens his eyes. Tron is staring at the rumpled pillow to the side and the expression on his face...he's not happy.

This is how it always ends - reluctantly, with a lingering kiss and "I'll see you later." This is how things work because this is the life they chose to live. Sam has never seen him like this, though. He'd never seen Tron look so desperate to stay here with him, away from the Grid. Why? What changed? He slides his hand down around the side of Tron's neck and rubs his thumb along the curve of the program's jaw, coaxes him to look up. The eyes he sees are dim and distressed, and it scares him much more than the ring on his left hand.

"What is it?" he asks. "Did something happen on the Grid?"

Tron just leans into the palm of his hand, not saying anything.

"Hey," Sam says softly, neutrally, trying to get a response from him.

"I need to..." Tron's voice shakes and stutters to a stop. He sounds so torn and it hurts to hear him force himself to say what needs to be said. "I need to go back."

"I know." _I'm sorry._

Tron pushes himself off of Sam and to the side, slides to the edge of the bed and rises to his feet. Sam sits up, watches him grab his jeans off the floor and pull them on before walking out of the bedroom. He stares down at the silvery ring on his left hand and rubs the heel of his thumb across its smooth surface. It feels like the cold metal is burning him. He glances up when the door creaks open; Marvin pokes his head inside looking for better company than the person waiting in the living room.

"Not now, Marv," he says, as if the dog leaping onto the bed to prod at the twisted sheets will understand him.

He should've returned them when he said he would. He shouldn't have left the stupid box out where anyone can find it. He can't have Tron not want to go back to the Grid because of the rings. Because of him.

"What did you think was going to happen?" he asks himself.

His mind doesn't offer an answer. Sighing, Sam gets off the bed and looks for something warm to wear for the round trip to the arcade.

* * *

><p>Saturday morning finds him poking listlessly at cereal while staring at the ring on his hand. He almost doesn't hear Quorra come in.<p>

"Morning," she says. "You look-you're wearing it."

He nods automatically. "Guess I am. Where were you?"

"Slept over at Eileen's. Just here to pick up a couple things for that demo on Monday." She leans on the counter and gives him a knowing smirk. "Told you he'd like it. No wonder you look so tired."

His face heats up and he immediately shoves a soggy mess of processed grains and marshmallows into his mouth. He chews furiously and glares at her as she laughs and then kneels down to scratch Marvin behind the ear.

Since it's a Saturday work hours are shorter and there are fewer people for him to run into. He spends most of his hours in his office, staring at the windows on the tower across the street while running his thumb along the surface of the ring. He can't stop thinking about the happiness and despair on Tron's face. He can't stop wondering if there's a way to fix it, a way to turn back time so that the idea of staying with him for more than a few hours will never plant itself in Tron's mind.

By Saturday night he's desperate to see Tron again but it hasn't been three days. He spends his time tweaking company projects for the Grid instead, burying himself in coding to forget. He codes through the night and into Sunday, only stopping when Quorra drags him away from his laptop to do a grocery run; all he does is follow her up and down the aisles, hands shoved into his jacket pockets while ignoring the curious looks she keeps sending him. He doesn't feel ready to expose the ring to the outside world yet.

He can't explain why he keeps rubbing his thumb along its surface, though.

On Monday he ignores his worries in favor of making faces at the email clogging up his work inbox. Ten minutes in, one of his self-appointed secretaries - Tom, the electrical engineering grad from MIT - pokes his head inside.

"Have you seen the demo Gaming put together for the Board? Also, that journo from Wall Street's here again. Maybe you should agree to a ten minute interview with her before she ends up moving into the lobby-you have a _life_?"

Sam stares at him. Tom points at his left hand, which is resting on the touchscreen table. "Someone put a ring on it!"

Sam slowly looks down at the rather conspicuous silvery band and quickly drops his hand under the desk. Face hot, he says, "Tell her no and Gaming hasn't sent me anything yet. I wanna see that demo before the Board does."

Outside the journalist loudly says, "Did he just quote Beyonce?"

By lunch roughly half the building had congratulated him on his impending...some say marriage and the others ask which of the East Coast states he's going to fly to for the marriage license, since apparently people spend more time looking up their CEO on Tumblr than working.

"Bet Dad didn't have to deal with this shit when he was CEO," Sam grumbles while hiding in Roy's office.

"Only after Dillinger got exposed, and after he disappeared back in '89." Roy abruptly stops typing and covers his face. "Foot in mouth, Ram..."

Sam snorts inwardly at his automatic use of Flynn's nickname for him. "It's fine." He rubs his thumb along the ring's surface, wonders briefly what Tron's been doing with his. Is he wearing it all the time or hiding it somewhere safe before going out on patrol? Have the others asked him about it yet? "I remember. All the cameras and phone calls, Alan shoving me into the car to get away from the reporters. But it wasn't anything like this."

"That was the '80s," Roy says. "Didn't have Web 2.0, celebrity news channels, or really bored people making headlines out of everything."

"That's what I don't get. Why do they care about a software company CEO?"

"Well you're not a gray old fart, for one. You're young, you're in charge of ENCOM, and you have a compelling back story behind your...meteoric rise to the top of the tech world."

"You read that crap?"

"Only to make jokes at your expense. Don't give yourself a headache over it; it's not worth the effort." Roy's phone vibrates and he glances at its bright screen, taps on it, and then returns to coding. "If you don't want your fifteen minutes of fame, don't jump off buildings and let the news cycle run its course. Or you can donate an insane amount of money to charity tomorrow and say it's an unbirthday gift to Junior."

Sam chuckles, remembering the Board's outrage the last time he pulled that kind of prank while running wild as a wayward trust fund baby, and then tilts his head back to stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that Roy stuck to the ceiling on his floor.

Then Roy asks, "So, when can I meet him?"

Towards the end of the day he finally heads back to his office. He raises an eyebrow when he sees Quorra exit it and then stops in his tracks when she points at the doors and mouths a name. Dread solidifies him from the inside out and it takes every ounce of willpower to make him take those last few steps to the doors.

Alan is leaning against the desk, arms crossed, staring at the glowing cityscape. Sam quietly shuts the doors behind him and maneuvers himself to the perimeter of the room, keeping his distance.

"I don't know whether to congratulate you or ask you what the hell you're thinking," Alan suddenly says.

"If it helps I don't know either," he offers. "Just so we're clear, this doesn't have anything to do with the entire building talking nonstop about it."

"I think everyone stopped panicking over you the third year you pranked the Board," Alan says dryly. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been hiding from my gossiping employees," Sam corrects.

Alan sighs and pinches his nose bridge. "Normally I wouldn't ask. It's not my business, and you haven't listened to me since you turned twelve. But what were you thinking?"

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. "Honestly? I wasn't. I don't know why I did it. Still don't. Why?"

It takes a while for Alan to answer and he speaks slowly, picking his words with too much care. "I remember you and Quorra telling me that programs don't age on the Grid."

"So?"

"What happens when you age and he doesn't?" Alan turns his head and pins him to the wall with steely eyes. "Did you ever think about that?"

The words settle heavily on his shoulders and wicks the moisture out of his mouth. Sam swallows hard, presses his thumb against the ring and stares at the floor. No, it never once crossed his mind what'll happen when they reach that point. He wasn't one to think about the future for more than five seconds; he didn't have a reason to. Even as CEO of ENCOM he delegated that responsibility to Alan, trusting him to nudge everyone down the right road.

But with Tron he doesn't know. They've been playing it by ear and making things up as they go, like the ring on his finger. Stopping to think about the far future is a little more than he can stomach right now, or ever.

"Wish I was that young again," Alan quietly says and he looks up. "I'm asking this because, knowing me-"

The image in his head is both ridiculous and incredibly uncomfortable. Sam laughs nervously. "Let's not go there. You're just making things really, really awkward."

Alan gives him a withering look and he slumps against the wall, rubs the back of his neck with his right hand. His left remains in his pocket, thumb rubbing against the ring.

"What did he do when you gave him the ring?"

There's a smart retort on the tip of his tongue - "You really wanna know all the details?" - but he forces his defense mechanism to shut down. "He found them. I was gonna return them but after all that shit with Apple I forgot to take them back."

"And you explained what they mean us."

"Q did, before. He asked her about your wedding ring. And he's...happy, to answer your question." _Until he had to go back to the Grid._

He starts shifting his weight from one foot to the other; the tight feeling in his chest is becoming constricting and he decides he'd rather skydive off the top of the tower than continue this conversation. The faster they get through this conversation the better. He demands, "What's your point?"

Alan sighs and tilts his head back, presses his mouth into a thin line and then says, "Knowing me he'd be loyal to a fault."

"Yeah, I know."

"He'll take it more seriously than he'll let on. So if something happens, if you change your mind or-"

"What makes you say that?" Sam snaps.

"He's a program; his world is the Grid, and he'll never die. But you're human. This is yours and you will. What happens when you're no longer there? What happens to him and the other programs, to the system? Did you ever think about that?"

Words fail him. Sam just stares, and belatedly remembers to breathe. His deep shuddering breath is painfully audible and he doesn't know if he should be grateful that Alan doesn't react to it.

"I know you mean well but if this is what you both want, you have to tell him. If you don't this will...this will break him, if he's anything like me." Alan looks at him. "Do you really want this?"

_Yes_, he wants to say. _Yes, I can take it, he can take it, we'll figure things out. _But he can't unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and he's not even sure how he's still standing.

"Have you..." For the first time Alan looks uncertain over his next words. "Have you ever thought about bringing him here? Like Quorra?"

"Permanently?" He can't recognize his own voice. It sounds like someone else who's seen too much and lived for too long. "You can't-you can't be serious."

"So you're going to keep living like this?"

"Well, yeah. No. I don't know. But he can't...he can't just leave the Grid."

"Quorra did-"

"She didn't have a choice!" Sam clenches his hands, feels his nails dig into skin. "If she stayed there she would've died. She _had_to get out. This isn't the same thing."

This can't be happening to him. This isn't the kind of conversation he wants to have before heading back in tonight. He doesn't want to recall the longing look on Tron's face as the digitizer returned him to the Grid, doesn't want to actively find an answer to any of the questions Alan keeps asking him. He just-he just wants to be with Tron, just wants to build the Grid with him and love him and feel like his life is going in the right direction.

"Things change, Sam. You don't know-"

"There never was anybody else," he says hoarsely. "Not before, not after."

"And what about when you grow old and he doesn't? Then what?"

"I can't ask...he can't just leave."

"And you're okay with living like this? For the rest of your life?"

He knows better than to snap back with a defiant "Yes", so instead he says, "I'm doing better than Dad, aren't I? I'm not running around like I'm losing my mind, rambling about how I'm changing the world."

For a long second Alan just stares at him. Then he shakes his head and laughs bitterly. "Maybe, but it's only been a year."

"Don't tell me this is about that stupid Board-"

"What? No. I'm worried about _you_. I'm worried that you might be in over your head with this."

"Last I checked I was over eighteen."

"I'm still your godfather. I watched you grow up. I just want you to be happy, Sam, but I can't see anything good coming out of this." Alan finally pushes himself off the desk and takes a step towards the door. "I'm not telling you what I think you should do. I just want you to think about it. Figure it out on your own, but don't ruin someone else's life over it."

Sam watches Alan leave, watches his hand linger on the door before letting it go to swing back into place. There's a sudden silence underlined with the muffled chaos of evening traffic down below. Sam glances at the clock on the wall but he can't read the time. Suddenly he's sitting on the floor, staring across the room at the wall-sized windows and the orange glow of the cityscape. He looks down at the ring on his left ring finger, then covers his face with his hands and tries to stifle the sob at the back of his throat.

* * *

><p>Half of the main security team is there when Sam emerges from the replica arcade but he has eyes only for Tron. The pull is magnetic, drags him to the tall program even as Tron moves to him. Tron looked impatient, almost anxious, but the turmoil in Sam's mind must've found its way onto his face because he takes Sam by the shoulder and quietly, urgently asks, "What's wrong?"<p>

His heart jumpstarts at the touch, tries to pound a hole through his chest. He opens his mouth but the words stay stuck to the back of his throat; instead he reaches up, curves his hands around Tron's face, and pulls him in. It takes a moment for Tron to respond and Sam licks at his bottom lip, tries to press into his mouth, tries to get him to _move_. And when he does react it's exactly the way Sam expects it - with care, with need, with that burning edge that comes from the long three days between visits. He tilts his head and sweeps his tongue into Sam's mouth, caresses and consumes as he pushes Sam back against the building's wall.

The street is empty when they finally pull back. Sam isn't one to get physical in front of the other programs - in front of anyone, really - but he doesn't know how else to force the thoughts out of his head. He sags against the wall, ignoring the awkward press of the disk dock into his back, and tries to catch his breath. He feels Tron shift closer, radiating thrumming heat, and thinks, _You're always here._

"What's wrong?" Tron asks again.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the program's presence, on the hand sliding down his shoulder to his elbow and the thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside of his arm, on the firm touch on the side of his face and the cold hard press of the ring against his cheekbone.

"You're wearing it," he whispers.

"Of course." Tron's voice is low and rough and warm. "So are you."

The question weaves through his words - "What's wrong, what happened?" - but Sam doesn't know how to answer. He just wants to forget, just wants Tron to take him away from the nightmare unfolding in his mind.

"I want to forget," he says. "I just want to forget."

"What happened?" Tron leans in even closer, pressing his forehead to Sam's. "Sam?"

There's no avoiding it, any of it, but he can't do it right now. "There's something...I'll tell you, I promise, but right now I just want to..."

Sometimes he wonders what he did to deserve the infinite patience Tron always shows. The program doesn't push him, just kisses him and asks, "What do you want me to do?"

The answer to that question comes so easily and he wishes everything could be like this. "Make me forget." He laces his fingers around the back of Tron's neck and tilts his head to press in a kiss. Tron lets him in and rumbles loudly as he tries to lose himself in the bittersweet tang of his mouth. Sam pulls back slowly and looks up at dark gray eyes. "I don't want to think for a while. Can you do that?"

Tron hesitates, and Sam wonders if he said something wrong. A numbing chill flushes through his body as he waits; seconds pass and he swallows hard, starts saying, "You don't have to-"

"I do." Tron lets go of him to unhook a baton from its holster. "My place. Come on."

The journey from Point A to Point B is a blur; Sam barely remembers waiting for Tron to code in the shortcut, the whistling wind in his ear as he urged his lightcycle to move faster, or the thriving glow of the restored sector the shortcut takes them to. Programs on the street - still so few compared to the vivid descriptions Tron provided him of a thriving city years ago - stop to stare but he doesn't notice. In the elevator he leans against the rail, head tilted up to stare at the backlit panels. Tron stays at his side, shoulder and hip touching his, and gives him a seemingly misplaced sense of peace.

Sam watches Tron touch a circuit on the wall as they enter the apartment. While the lines glow and the furniture unfolds the program turns to him and reaches out, tugs him forward by the jacket collar. He follows as if in a trance, lets Tron push the jacket off his shoulders. The gap where the disk dock fits through the jacket disappears as code meshes together, sealing the hole, and Sam kicks it away. Tron leans in, brushes his mouth against Sam's, slides the back of his circuit-lined fingers down his arm, and pushes him onto the bed. Sam pulls himself up the mattress, watches Tron hesitate again before following him. There's something tight and anxious in the program's expression and Sam knows he should be concerned, he should ask, but he can't bring himself to speak. It'll just delay the desperate need humming under his skin.

Tron leans in, pushes him down and crawls over him, bows his head to nip at Sam's bottom lip. Sam reaches up to tangle his fingers in the program's hair, spreads his knees to better fit his long lean body, and nods when Tron asks, "Are you sure?"

So Tron kisses him, plunges into his mouth and breathes ozone into his lungs. He slides his hand under the shirt, pushes it up to expose skin. Sam moans into his mouth at the drag of circuits up his chest; he feels the thin white lines reveal themselves under Tron's long fingers, throbbing and pulsing energy and heat. Tron rumbles and mouths at the underside of his jaw, teeth scraping skin as he slowly works his way down the line of Sam's neck. With another moan Sam tilts his head back, shudders and thrusts up against the program as pleasure sears across his skin. His fingers curl and drag against Tron's scalp while he closes his eyes and focuses on the hot mouth trailing teeth and burning kisses to the hollow of his neck.

"Make me forget," he whispers harshly. "Please."

He shudders when Tron answers with a low deep growl, lifts his head and leans down to delve deep into his mouth. He moves against Sam with purpose, thrusts against him while stroking the circuits lacing his skin; Sam curls his legs around Tron's waist, rolls his hips up and presses his fingertips to the circuit at the back of Tron's neck. Lightning snaps through him, rushes hot and cold through his senses; he gasps and arches up, feels his chest constrict and swell as the energy settles restlessly in his converted code.

The pace Tron sets is slow, an agonizing contradiction to what Sam wants, but he takes such care in his kisses and his touch, never stops moving long enough for Sam to start thinking about what happened earlier today. Sam welcomes it, drowns himself in the flood of sensations and pleasure as Tron takes him higher and higher, stretches his nerves voxel-thin and leaves him shaking with pent-up need. He clings to the program, cries out as he teeters on the edge and looks down at oblivion, moans as Tron thrusts against him and brings him that much closer to release.

"Sam," Tron says and his voice drags, rough and hoarse and perfect. "Look at me."

And he does, opens his eyes and looks up at Tron. He takes in the disheveled hair, the stormy gray eyes tinged with a blue glow, the swollen spit-slick lips, the violent violet glow of his circuits on his face. There's a fond sadness in the program's face and he wonders at it until Tron gathers his lips in a kiss, presses into his mouth and bruises every inch of it with an insistent, forceful tongue. Sam follows his lead, responds with the desperation borne from the fear of losing one's beloved, and holds on tight, cries out Tron's name as the program drags him into oblivion.

It takes a long time for the stars to fade from his vision and for the aftermath to sink into his body. The bed shifts as Tron carefully slides off of him and to the side, and Sam turns to face him, fixes his eyes on the purple-tinged circuits a few inches away from him. He wonders when Tron will ask him again, then firmly pushes the thought aside. Another time, another place, he tells himself. Not while the heady thrum of pleasure is lulling him to sleep. He slides his left hand across the bed to brush his fingers along the edge of a circuit node, feels it spark bright and hot.

Tron shudders, rumbles loudly as he presses his forehead to Sam's. He rests his hand on top of Sam's, slides his thumb along the curve of the ring. "Are you all right?"

Sam wants to bury himself in the infinite warmth of Tron's voice and sleep for a thousand years. He can't, though, because no, he's not all right. They're not all right. But at this very moment?

"Yeah," he says with a soft exhale. "I'm all right."

They'll figure this out, he thinks as he closes his eyes and feels Tron slowly card fingers through his hair. They always do.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>Where do I even _begin_?

TMI time but the idea for this time stamp came about after I read an ace!Sherlock/John wedding 'verse and was dealing with those pesky things called hormones. After agonizing over the sheer sap/sentimentality of it I opened a gdoc, titled it "there be rings here, captain!" and started typing. For a couple weeks it was the cheesiest, sappiest, most embarrassing thing I had ever written, because I don't do cheesy-sappy-happy things. I do drama and angst.

Then, while at Disneyland for ElecTRONica with some awesome Tron peeps, the fic took an incredibly dark turn. It took several days for me to stop thinking of it as the happy sappy fic that went OOC on my watch, because suddenly this time stamp was the ending of _Le Disko _and everything that transpires in 8.5k words is setup for what I still consider to be _We Are Pilots_'s official sequel.


	24. Short: The Sweetness

**Author's Note:** I consider this a "short fic" despite its length - it's longer than several official _Le Disko_ chapters - because it functions in a similar fashion to the shorts in the Marvel movie DVDs: it highlights or expands upon plot development and/or character growth.

Or it's a silly idea I tweeted about months ago that needed a place in the Pilots!verse and I decided to class it up by calling it a "_Le Disko_ short".

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><p><strong>Le Disko<strong>

**Short 01: The Sweetness**

On Jessie Drew's birthday her boyfriend sent a box of chocolate-dipped strawberries to her floor. Quorra got one drizzled in white and dark chocolate, and spent the rest of the day gushing about how unbelievably delicious it was.

"I'd save you one but they were all so _good_," she said on the elevator ride down. "How much do you think they cost? I want to eat them every day _ever_. Fruit and chocolate, Sam! Who else would come up with that combination but Users - I mean, people!"

Sam was suffering from a headache and wanted nothing more than to take some aspirin and burrow under the covers. As such, he muttered, "If you like them so much why don't you Google how to make them?"

Her eyes lit up like fireworks and he immediately regretted reminding her of the power of the Internet. He sagged against the side of the elevator while she dug through her bag for her phone.

"You're right! Wait, there's no reception here. But we're not leaving until I look it up..."

They got home two hours later than usual, carrying several plastic bags full of Quorra's favorite fruits and what looked like a year's worth of semisweet chocolate disks. Marvin swarmed them, wagging his tail and whining for dinner, and almost trips Sam. Quorra skillfully avoided his wiggling body and talked nonstop about all the things she planned to coat in chocolate while she set the bags on the counter and unpacked everything. Sam couldn't stop thinking about the dumbstruck cashier's suggestion about bacon, and also about the bottle of aspirin in the cupboard above Quorra's head.

"I'm starting with the strawberries," she said. "What about you? "

"No bacon," he told her as he filled a glass with water and went to his room. "And don't let Marv get into any of it."

He woke up four hours later and stumbled out of his room to find Quorra on the couch, balancing the prototype Slate on her lap and chatting with two people from Development while mowing through a mountain of chocolate-covered strawberries and watching _Mythbusters _at the same time. She peeked over the top of the couch and pointed at the plate. He shook his head and went to the kitchen to find his half-eaten sandwich from lunch in the fridge, stopped to stare at the army of chocolate-covered strawberries covering the entire counter, and retreated into his room with Marvin to continue sleeping off the headache.

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><p>There is a plate of chocolate-covered banana slices waiting for him when he walks out of his room this morning. By the end of the day Quorra establishes a serious reputation as a chocoholic and Sam wonders what manner of monster he accidentally unleashed on stores that sell chocolate and not just the Hershey's kind.<p>

Five minutes after Sam ports Tron out of the Grid and takes him back to the apartment he decides that maybe he doesn't regret telling Quorra she can make chocolate-covered strawberries to her heart's content. It's hard to think negatively about her tendency to overreact to her newest favorite thing with religious fervor when it leads to him watching Tron dip a curious finger into a still-warm bowl of chocolate and lick it.

"It's called chocolate," he says while Tron makes a confused face and tries to concentrate on the flavor. "Did I seriously forget to introduce you to it?"

Tron hums a noncommittal answer, licks his finger free, and sticks it back in the chocolate. Sam thinks about saying something about double-dipping but decides he'd rather watch Tron discover chocolate at his own pace. The program seems to be catching onto the idea of chocolate very quickly, looking incredibly pleased in the same way that Quorra was euphoric after her first taste. In fact the sheer ecstasy in his face convinces Sam that all programs have a thing for chocolate and that he can solve all his in-Grid problems if he manages to convert a couple thousand bars into code and hands them out to everyone in the city. That, and also solve the problem of nonexistent taste buds since they need to be able to experience something as complex and flavorful as chocolate. It's a shame he can't solve all his out-Grid problems with chocolate, too.

He sniggers at the mental picture of himself sweet talking the Board into agreeing with everything he says with chocolate bars and draws Tron's attention away from the chocolate.

"What's so funny?"

Sam shakes his head and leans against the counter. "Nothing. It's - it's nothing." He then notices the smudge of chocolate on the corner of Tron's mouth. "You got, uh..."

He reaches over to wipe it off with this thumb and licks the chocolate off without a second thought. That is until he hears a sharp intake of air and notices the flush slowly working up Tron's face, the suddenly swollen pupils and the parted lips.

_Huh, _his mind supplies as he deliberately swipes the last traces of chocolate off his thumb.

Tron steps close, breathing shallowly, eyes trained on his thumb. Sam considers what's bringing this on - it's either the chocolate or him licking his fingers - and decides instead to reach behind him and dip his index and middle fingers in the chocolate. He holds his hand out and shudders when Tron opens his mouth and licks the chocolate off the underside of his fingers. Heat flushes up his face and down his body as he feels Tron's slick tongue slide against the whorls and calluses and curve around the joints. Then Tron closes his mouth around the two fingers, wrapping them in wet heat, and Sam thinks he's about to die of a heart attack.

Tron has a wicked way with his tongue, uses it to caress Sam's fingers and flick at the web between them. He seems to hum as he licks them clean and Sam can feel the vibrations work from the back of Tron's throat all the way up his arm. And all the while he doesn't stop looking at Sam, pins him to this spot with hungry dark eyes full of intent. Sam can't stop staring back and only blinks when Tron pulls the fingers out of his mouth. More like, he pulls his head back and lets them slide over his tongue. Cold air hits his slick fingers and Sam shivers, remembers belatedly to breathe.

Seconds tick by and then Sam hoarsely asks, "More?"

Instead of nodding or shaking his head Tron steps forward, pushing Sam up against the counter and sliding a knee between his thighs. Sam braces himself, hands curling around the counter's round edge, and tilts his chin up as Tron kisses him. Teeth close on his lips, tug at them and leave them tingling, and the program presses his tongue into Sam's mouth. Sam opens up willingly and chocolate suddenly blooms on his tongue. The sweetness of it shifts something in him and he suddenly craves it, suddenly needs to taste it, needs to lick it out of Tron's bittersweet mouth. He lets go of the counter with one hand and wraps it around the back of the program's neck, fingers curling in the short hairs, and pulls Tron in to better seek out every trace of the flavor.

The small of his back starts hurting and he shifts, tries to relieve the pressure on it. Tron pulls back just far enough for Sam to catch his breath and then brushes his lips against the corner of his mouth, trails down to the curve of his jaw. Sam closes his eyes and shivers at the ghostly touch, feels his pulse pound in his neck as he tilts it to the side. He thinks, with increasing vagueness as Tron accepts the invitation and sucks out a bruise high up on his neck where everyone will see it, that telling Quorra how to make chocolate-covered strawberries was a fucking fantastic idea.

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><p>Officially it's a business lunch. In reality maybe fifty percent, sixty percent of it is spent talking business. Twenty percent is spent discussing the Grid, including the trouble with locating the last of the rogue programs and the ENCOM experiments running around in the city. The other twenty percent is spent on their private lives. Sam's private life, to be more precise. Like the very visible love bite on his neck.<p>

"Is that why Quorra showed up at my house with a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries?" Lora asks. "Is this what happens every time you bring him out of the Grid? You kick her out of the apartment for a few hours while you two-"

Sam chokes over a mouthful of panini. Upon recovering he says, "Can we not talk about this? Aren't you - isn't it weird? For you?"

He wonders how concerned he should be when Lora takes a while to come up with an answer.

"Funny. Alan asked me that, too. But no, it doesn't bother me. Looking like someone and being that person are two different things. And you were always so attached to that toy. You remember, right? ...now that I think about it, kind of makes sense why it looked like Alan..."

Sam feels his face and the bruise on his neck turn hot. Why, oh why, did he agree when she popped her head into his office and suggested the cafe a couple blocks down the street to "go over a couple things from Marketing and Research"?

Then Lora asks, "You don't mind me staring once in a while, do you? So weird seeing him and thinking, 'God, Alan used to be that young...' I bet he's really flexible-"

"Lora!" he yelps, mortified, and she laughs.

Maybe because she pities him she skillfully directs the conversation away from Tron and back to the Grid. He tells her that he and Quorra are considering hooking up the Grid to a private network so that they can communicate remotely with its inhabitants and adds that he wants to rig one of the I/O towers so that it can send messages to his phone. If Clu was able to reach Alan's pager, why not the more modern cell phone?

Towards the end of lunch hour Lora decides to buy some dessert. Sam just shakes his head when she asks if he wants anything and starts drumming his fingers on the table, people-watching, while she leaves. He's not sure why his eyes wander to two people sitting at a table several feet away; there's something about the way they talk, the way they look at each other as they gesture and laugh over their food that echoes how he feels whenever he and Tron make small talk while sitting on top of the control tower at the Grid's heart.

_Two more days._

Lora returns with a slice of chocolate cake and two forks, and he looks away from the silver rings on the couple's hands. She sits down but pauses while opening the plastic container. She scrutinizes the cake the way she inspects the digitizer and then she grins.

"He _really _likes chocolate, doesn't he?"

Sam buries his face in his hands.


End file.
